Furo
by AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: Jim Moriarty's apparent return from the dead heralds the dawning of a grim new chapter not only for Sherlock and Molly, but for the entire world. Two words: Zombie Apocalypse. Co-written with MizJoely for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang Challenge
1. Prologue: Dawn of the Dead

**_This story was written with MizJoely as part of the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang Challenge and beta'd by AlltheBellsinVenice :) Much love to both of those ladies, I have never had so much fun writing a fic!_**

* * *

 ** _Prologue - Dawn of the Dead_**

 _(Two months after Sherlock's 4-minute exile)_

The smell of disinfectant and plastic overwhelmed Peter Welmsley from the moment he stepped into the room. He'd never been terribly comfortable with these sorts of visits, and this was his third in as many weeks. There was always too much white, too much fluorescent light and the vague smell of alcohol and something burning. It made him edgy, reminding him of doctors' offices and sickness. As an inspector for the British government, however, he had little choice but to go where he was pointed and report on the progress of their facilities.

If he was being honest, Welmsley found the inside of the building far preferable to the city outside (if it could be called a city). There was no order, no propriety. Traffic laws were nonexistent and he could not decipher if the people shouting at him as he walked by were trying to sell him cheap souvenirs or begging for (demanding, really) money. He'd never got the hang of Mandarin. Or was it Cantonese? No matter, his guides spoke English and that was all that mattered.

"So as you can see, Mr. Welmsley, the tests are all running according to plan and we are making great progress," his guide said as he gestured to the various workers sitting at lab benches and performing tasks he didn't understand.

"Yes, well," he sniffed, his nose stinging slightly. "Very good. And the prognosis? How soon can I expect to let my superiors know that we have something to sell to the public?"

"We are hopeful that we can deliver a successful product within the month."

Peter turned and saw the lead scientist on the project, one Doctor Nicholas Boehm. Tall and angular, he cut a perfect figure in his blue lab coat and dark trousers, his black-rimmed glasses perched atop his patrician nose. Blond hair flecked with grey gave away his age, though he looked a good ten years younger than he was.

"Doctor Boehm," Peter said, holding out his hand in greeting.

"Mr. Welmsley, always a pleasure," the other gentleman said, smiling as he shook his hand. "There's no need to subject you to any more of this – " He gestured to the lab. "What say we move on to a cup of tea in my office?"

"Delighted," Peter said with relief.

They hadn't gone far in the hallway outside the lab before they were approached by a woman in a white coat, a clipboard held firmly in her hands. She looked to be in her early 40s with shoulder-length brown hair. Pretty enough, he supposed, if you went for the older sorts. Blithely ignoring the fact that he was well beyond the mid-point of that same decade, he waited with ill-concealed impatience while she spoke to her superior.

"Doctor Boehm, we need your authorization to order more specimens," she said crisply, holding out the clipboard. "We lost another dozen in the last round of trials."

Boehm took in a thoughtful breath as he glanced at the paper. "Very good, Stapleton," he said, signing off on the form quickly. He handed the clipboard back to her. "Make sure to note the length of prodromal and acute periods, will you?"

"Yes, sir," Stapleton replied, turning and disappearing down the hall, quickly forgotten by Welmsley as Boehm escorted him into his office.

The good Doctor Boehm could make a proper cup of tea, that was certain, and the moment the steaming liquid entered Welmsley's mouth he felt right for the first time since his plane landed the day before.

"I won't bore you with the details of our recent research," Doctor Boehm said, leaning back in his office chair. "We can provide you with all of the paperwork to take back for your superiors to look at. What I can share with you is the genuine confidence that our days of dealing with this disease as we know it are almost over."

Welmsley shook his head slightly as he took another sip of tea. "Still don't fully understand the effort," he said. "Haven't seen it in England in years, you know."

"Ah, but imagine the security of knowing that no one will ever worry about it again, not even the threat of a foreign case slipping into the country," Boehm elaborated, resting his elbows on the chair arms and folding his hands over his stomach. "It will be the last thing on anyone's mind."

Welmsley raised his eyebrows and tipped his head, acquiescing to the superior knowledge of those in charge.

It all seemed to be in order by the time he had boarded the small commuter plane to Beijing two days later. The documents on the project were securely in his briefcase and he was happy to be on his way home. He complained to the steward that the cabin seemed to be rather too stuffy and he was sure that the air vent above his seat was not working properly. The steward apologized for his discomfort and said they would attempt to fix the air. By the time his flight from Beijing to Brussels landed for the hours-long layover, he felt the beginnings of a travel-induced cold, sniffling and coughing as he sought out some Nurofen and hoping the symptoms wouldn't be long lasting.

He simply went to bed when he reached his home, telling his wife that he would be calling out of work the next day. When his fever reached 35 degrees Centigrade and the chills made him shake almost non-stop, his wife insisted he visit the hospital.

He snapped at her, telling her it was just the flu and that the doctors never did anything but poke and prod him before telling him to get plenty of rest and drink fluids, and she would be more useful if she made him soup. Stupid woman.

During the night he woke, suddenly feeling full of energy and an aching, desperate need to get out. He was barely aware of how he managed to find his way to Soho, but he pressed his way into nightclubs and bars, handling his drink better than he'd ever managed to before. He questioned why he'd never taken advantage of places such as those before – they had the most beautiful women who smelled like vitality and sex and they were far easier to coax into the back of his car than his wife had ever been.

He lost track of the hours, lost track of the women, but he'd never felt more alive or full of vigor.

He didn't remember falling to the floor and passing out on the way to the loo in a pub, but he woke up in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV and all manner of machines. The last thing he was able to register was attempting to rip the lines from his arms and shouting obscenities at the hospital staff as they fought him down to the bed.


	2. Mortuary

Molly Hooper generally liked her job. Oh, there were the days when the weight of what she did hit her and she had to deal with a case that pushed the limits of her resolve, but overall she was proud of what she did. She gave people closure. Oftentimes, she brought justice to people who had been wronged. It was a peaceful process, one that she could get lost in, devoting herself to detail and making sure everything was correct. It was soothing.

Most of the time.

Plastic rattled and crashed on the lab bench just feet from her.

She looked up from her paperwork to see at least ten petri dishes filled with samples splayed out on the surface of the bench, clearly having just been knocked over by a very peevish consulting detective. He had already placed a new dish under the scope, adjusting the knobs as he grumbled about useless suppliers of his samples.

"Do those have contagions in them?" she asked calmly.

"Probably."

"Are they _sealed?_ "

"Do they look sealed?" Sherlock snipped.

"Here," Molly said, shoving a box of parafilm towards him. He glanced at her, his lip curling up as though she'd asked him to clean the toilet. "Secure them or you lose body part privileges for a month."

Begrudgingly, Sherlock reached out for the box and started dramatically cutting off strips of the film.

Molly smirked and looked down at her papers again. Ever since Moriarty's face had appeared on every screen in London two months before, Sherlock's presence in the morgue had increased tenfold. She knew he was worried about her, worried about any retaliation that might come her way if James Moriarty knew how intricately she was involved in Sherlock's faked death. He'd been overly concerned about everyone in his life, particularly since Alice Watson had been born.

He wouldn't admit it anyone if asked point blank, of course, but he was in a constant rotation between the Watsons', Scotland Yard, Baker Street, and Barts, keeping eyes on every individual that had or could be threatened. The fact that the video appearances (there had been several) had so far been the only evidence of Moriarty's return was both unsettling and a bit of a relief at the same time. As long as the threat remained, Sherlock was allowed limited freedom within the confines of the London city limits, ostensibly under the watchful eye of his brother and the Met, able to take on other cases and live his life pretty much as he had before executing Charles Augustus Magnussen.

It had taken a bit of time for Molly to come to terms with Sherlock's actions – and his reasons for those actions – but she'd managed simply due to the fact that those reasons had been based on sentiment, on caring for someone more than he did himself – caring for three someones, to be precise. Magnussen had been no direct threat to Sherlock, but the threat to Mary, John and baby Alice had been very, very real. Was there another, better way to deal with the threat? Probably, but in the time allotted, Molly had to admit that she couldn't have come up with an alternative. Certainly not one that would keep the Watsons safe.

And since Moriarty's return had kept Sherlock from disappearing into permanent exile – Molly had some very dark suspicions about that aborted mission, suspicions she kept to herself – she supposed she could be thankful for the criminal genius's timing. Oh, the worry that Sherlock would be sent off again once the Moriarty case was resolved was very real and hung over their heads like the Sword of Damocles, but Sherlock seemed resolved to focus on the present and not the future, and Molly and his other friends took their cue from that.

She certainly didn't mind his company in the lab. Sherlock had done a great deal to atone for his relapse and other lapses of judgement he'd made during the Magnussen case (a certain faked engagement came to mind), and they'd grown close. She still wasn't sure what it meant that he'd found his way into her bed on more than one occasion when he didn't want to be located (whether she was in the bed or not). Whatever holding pattern they were in, it was comfortable and she couldn't complain.

But she _could_ make sure he didn't completely upend her lab when he decided she needed watching.

A few moments into Sherlock's performance of martyrdom, Mike Stamford poked his head into the lab. "Molly," he called cheerfully. "Got a fresh one if you have the time. Bit of a mystery, thought you'd enjoy it."

"Paperwork?" she asked, standing up and gathering her things.

She tried to ignore the suddenly attentive man sitting across from her. Mike held up a manila folder. She walked over and took it from him, flipping through the file. Her brow furrowed as she read the report.

"Thanks," she said distractedly, her mind already trying to piece together what had happened. "I'll have it finished today."

Mike nodded at her, waved at Sherlock, and disappeared into the hall. Molly stood reading for a minute, only looking up when she heard a throat clearing. "Mm?"

"Interesting case?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound casual.

"Certainly is," she replied, looking at him over the top of the file. There weren't many times that Molly could properly say anyone looked at her like a puppy waiting for a treat, but this was unquestionably one of them.

"I thought you were busy," she said, nodding at the ruined dishes.

"Not a spore in sight," he assured her, scrunching up his face as he waved off the experiment. He stood up and walked towards her as he talked, placing a hand on the small of her back and leading her out the door. "Without that, it's just plain dirt from Dorchester and the wife isn't adulterous and someone else stole their life savings. Boring. Shall we?"

They found the body already waiting for them in the morgue and Molly wasted no time in prepping for the post mortem. Sherlock perched on a stool at the edge of the room, his nose stuck in the report.

"Travel...fever...violent tremors…outbursts…"

He read the symptoms and circumstances off like a list, squinting more and more the further into the account he got.

"A bit more than outbursts," Molly said, pulling the protective mask down over her face and double-checking to make sure all of her tools were at the ready. "He punched a doctor and bit a nurse."

"If I didn't know any better," Sherlock said slowly. "I'd say it sounds like…"

"I know what it sounds like," she agreed before he finished, looking at him. "But he presented and died within three days. That's way too fast. And if you look on the next page he – "

"Tested negative for the virus, yes," Sherlock finished her sentence, snapping the folder shut. "Bit unusual."

"A bit, yes," Molly said with a nod.

Sherlock pursed his lips, looking at the body laid out on the metal slab. "How long?"

"Two hours. Maybe more," she told him, taking a guess at the length of time she would need to spend on Peter Welmsley.

"Right," he said, hopping off of the stool. "I'll be back then. Coffee?"

"Please," she said gratefully.

She picked up a fresh scalpel as soon as he'd left the room, standing over the body and pressing start on the digital recorder as she started in on the initial observations about the case.

"Patient presented with mild upper respiratory irritation before the onset of influenza-like symptoms including malaise and fever, perspiration, and – "

She stopped cold when she thought she saw a twitch in the muscle of the cheek. Holding perfectly still, she focused on the area and waited. It wasn't unusual to witness a few post-mortem tweaks and sounds from the bodies she worked with. But Molly had become used to a pattern when it came to those situations. What she thought she'd just seen didn't match.

When several moments had gone by and nothing else happened, she chalked it up to her eyes playing tricks on her. She cleared her throat and went on. "Symptoms including perspiration, agitation, violent tendencies…"

Her pulse sped up. There was definite movement in the neck and face muscles. She'd heard stories from other pathologists about patients who had been declared dead suddenly "coming back to life" in the morgue. They were few and far between, but it did happen. Most of the time, it was short lived (morgue humor not intended) and the patient passed soon thereafter, for good.

She'd hoped to complete her career without ever dealing with a situation such as that.

Just when she thought she would have to call for emergency support, she was frightened nearly off her feet as the body of Peter Welmsley jerked, his eyes flying open and his mouth wrenching open with a horrific cry.

The scream caught in her throat and she dropped scalpel and recorder when he sat up, gripping the sides of the metal slab. His eyes rolled unnaturally before they settled on her.

In the instant before he lunged off the slab, Molly managed to grab the tray of autopsy tools and smashed it into his head with a bang, knocking him sideways and buying herself a few precious seconds. She ripped off her mask and practically dove for the bone saw that was sitting nearby, tearing the protective shield off of it before flipping it on. The tool roared to life just as her post-mortem staggered to his feet, growling (growling!) and charging towards her, outstretched hands curled into claws and teeth gnashing. She brought the saw down on his head, eliciting a howl of pain as he fell to the floor, and she didn't hesitate for a moment before swiping the blade across the back of his neck. Blood spurted out over the floor and splattered across her trousers and shoes. Peter Welmsley spasmed once, twice, and then lay still.

Breathing hard and trembling with adrenaline, Molly stood with the bone saw still whirring in her hands as she hovered over the body, terrified to look away in case he revived. When she finally had the nerve to look up, she saw Sherlock standing just inside the morgue doors, his mouth hanging open and looking horrified.

Molly dropped the bone saw, letting it clatter and sputter on the floor, and ran to him. She flung her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest, closing her eyes against what she would never be able to forget. She felt his hands on her arms, unbelievably grateful that he'd come back when he did.

"This…this might not exactly be the right time, but… that was incredibly hot."

Molly pulled back and looked at him, stunned. "What?" she exclaimed, her brow scrunching in bafflement.

"Is that the right phrase? Hot? I… oh sod it." He gripped her face and pulled her to him, his mouth landing fiercely on hers.


	3. Biohazardous

Molly's mind went utterly blank as Sherlock's mouth moved over hers. He was kissing her. Sherlock Holmes, the man she'd loved and so desperately wanted for so many years – even when engaged to another man she thought she'd loved – was kissing her. And not just some friendly peck on the cheek; no, a full on snog, with lips and tongue, his arms around her holding her tight to his body. Her fists clenched around the lapels of his Belstaff – when had she moved her hands from his back? – and his hands were moving up to tug at her hair, angling her head so he could deepen the kiss.

"Molly," he groaned against her lips as they paused for air.

"Yes?" she breathed, gazing up at him, finally easing her grip on his coat enough for one hand to slide up to his neck.

Whatever he was about to say – and he was definitely going to say something, as his mouth had opened – was immediately interrupted by the bursting open of the morgue doors. They swiveled their heads and stared, both frozen into immobility as what seemed like dozens of black-clad soldiers poured into the room.

Molly shrank back as several of them stormed towards her and Sherlock, shouting at them to stand still. Another five or six rushed across the room, one of them pausing to turn off the bone saw before joining the others crowded around the body lying on the floor. She was further stunned by the sudden appearance of a group dressed head to toe in HazMat gear, carrying a stretcher between them and running towards the body. In a matter of seconds, they had Peter Welmsley neatly packed into a body bag and tied onto the stretcher. Several of them were spraying strongly- smelling antiseptic liquid from metal containers onto the mess of blood and bone on the floor.

"What the hell is this?"

Sherlock's angered voice startled her and she looked over to see Mycroft standing nearby, his hands calmly clasped behind his back.

"Precautions," Mycroft told him sharply. He looked at the soldiers that were guarding them. "The usual decontamination procedure, please. And thorough blood tests."

Neither Molly nor Sherlock could say a word before they were gripped strongly by soldiers and forced from the morgue.

"Sherlock?" she said worriedly, looking at him as they were marched through the basement hallways.

"We'll be fine," he said, though clearly not meaning to comfort her all that much. "Mycroft has always been happy to let me know when he thinks I'm about to die. Or go to prison. He would have said something."

It did very little to assuage her panic. If anything, the fact that they were about to face government- issued decontamination and testing procedures only freaked her out more, considering a man had just come viciously back to life on her autopsy table and tried to kill her.

They were shoved unceremoniously through the delivery doors at the back of Barts and immediately loaded into the back of a black military lorry. Two soldiers climbed in with them, forcing them to take a seat. There was silence in the lorry as the driver started the engine. They

jerked slightly in their seats when the van lurched forward, rumbling away from the hospital.

"What are the chances either of you actually knows what is going on?" Sherlock asked flippantly, his eyes darting back and forth between the two soldiers.

The men simply looked at one another, their faces stony and unreadable. Sherlock nodded, frowning. "Thought not. Brute and no brains."

Molly gaped at him - openly insulting two very skilled, very strong soldiers holding very large guns. Just their presence was enough to have her weak-kneed. Or perhaps that was something leftover from what had transpired just before the soldiers burst into her morgue...

Oh God.

Sherlock had kissed her. Really thoroughly. With a reanimated corpse ten feet away. And bloody hell, he'd been good at it. In the grand scheme of things it was hardly the most shocking event of the day, but at least it was something her mind could latch onto. Something she might actually be able to figure out.

Her breathing didn't stand a chance at slowing down before they arrived at the government building, swept out of the lorry and into another basement under the watchful eye of more soldiers. After walking through a wind-tunnel passage, white-clad and masked technicians met them in a cement room with two shower heads at the far end, separated by a cement block half- wall. Molly was brought to one side of it while Sherlock was escorted to the other.

"Clothes off," one of the technicians said, unraveling a biohazard bag and placing it on the ground in front of her.

Oh just wonderful. She would never see her favorite blouse again. Irritably, Molly shed her lab coat and stuffed it in the bag, taking her mobile and placing it on the half-wall. Her shoes, socks, trousers, and blouse followed into the bag. She hesitated before removing her bra and knickers, but the technician showed no signs of turning away, and so, face burning, she reached back to undo the clasp on her bra.

Her fingers fumbled as she realized that Sherlock was also undressing right next to her. The thought made her flush even redder. She kept her head averted and hoped he was doing the same...and that if he wasn't, that he would keep any observations as to her person strictly to himself.

"Your mobile, Mr. Holmes," she heard one of the technicians say. Sherlock started to argue with the man, who simply waited out the tirade. "Your brother's orders," he said in a bored tone once Sherlock had gone silent again. With an annoyed grunt, Sherlock slapped the phone into the man's gloved hand.

"Yours too," 'her' technician said, holding out his hand.

With an annoyed glare, Molly handed over the device. Once the technician had taken everything, he moved to the metal door, patiently waiting for his counterpart to finish with Sherlock.

"The doctor will be by to examine you as soon as you've finished your scrub-up," Technician No. 1 said as soon as Sherlock had huffily finished stuffing his clothes and shoes – and expensive wristwatch – into the biohazard bag. Then the two of them left the room, carrying Molly and Sherlock's belongings with them – and very audibly locking the door behind them.

"As if we're going to just stroll out of here naked," Molly scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. She still hadn't turned to face Sherlock, instead making her way to the shower and reaching

for the soap that had been provided. "May as well get this over with, I guess."

"Molly, conversation really isn't necessary at the moment," Sherlock snapped. She finally allowed herself to face him, her gaze traveling over what she could see of his naked torso. He was facing her but his eyes were distant, distracted, clearly focused on something other than her naked form. Considering that he was the one who'd kissed her, Molly was a bit peeved at his lack of a reaction, then chided herself for being a ninny; of course he wasn't going to be looking at her under these circumstances! He was no doubt analyzing everything that had just happened to them, processing the limited data they had, as she should be doing.

Instead, her gaze lingered on his body as he continued standing there, left hand supporting the right elbow, fingers of his right hand tapping against his lips, lost in thought. His chest was pale and lean, but well formed with only a few sparse hairs around each of his nipples. _Oh God, I'm looking at Sherlock's nipples,_ Molly thought with the beginning of an hysterical giggle trying to fight its way past her lips. She took a deep breath and decided it would be best if she left him to his thoughts. She turned on the water, gasping at the frigid blast that struck her body. At least it helped cool down her inappropriate physical reaction to the sight of Sherlock's bare chest!

The water warmed eventually, and she was able to scrub down with the antimicrobial soap. After she'd finished and turned off the spray, her hair dripped loudly on the cement floor as she did her best to wring it out. Sherlock was only a minute behind her in spite of his later start; ah, the perks of shorter hair, Molly thought sourly.

Just when she was beginning to shiver from the evaporating water, the door opened once more and a middle-aged female doctor walked in with a clear purpose. Dressed similarly to the technicians and pushing a cart filled with green scrubs and a few medical examination tools, she asked for Molly to stand with her arms outstretched before performing a very thorough inspection of her skin, particularly around the neck, arms, and spine.

"Any bites? Any broken skin or mucosal contact?" the doctor asked.

"No, none," Molly answered, happy when the doctor deemed her passable and handed her a set of sterile, plastic scrubs.

She gratefully pulled on the scrubs as the doctor moved on to Sherlock. When her head popped through the neck hole of the top, she thought for just a moment that she'd seen Sherlock quickly look away.

It was enough to make her pause, watching him as he stood with his arms splayed, waiting for his inspection to be finished before they moved on to their next round of medical humiliation. It was probably wrong of her to keep focusing on the kiss with all that had transpired, but she couldn't help it. It had been so very unexpected, and so very, very wonderful. Everything she'd ever fantasized a kiss from Sherlock would be, and then some.

It wasn't difficult to force her mind back to reality when they were escorted out of the shower. Her hair clung to her back and soaked her top as they passed through another wind tunnel and into a small room set up for testing. Two technicians were already there, preparing for blood tests and mouth swabs. Molly nervously took a seat in one of the chairs, glancing at Sherlock as he mechanically sat down and presented the inside of his arm, resting it on the arm of the chair. She tried not to think about the fact that this sort of thing was probably old hat for him.

The technicians filled vials with their blood and asked for saliva in a plastic container before swabbing their cheeks, and then just as suddenly as it had all started, it was over and they were left alone in the chilly exam room. Molly stuck her hands between her knees, still a bit cold, and glanced anxiously around the room.

"Still think it's not rabies?" Sherlock broke the silence.

"I'm a little more convinced," she conceded. "But I still don't understand how it could advance so quickly...and so violently."

"Not to mention the fact that he was _dead_." "Yes," she agreed slowly, quietly. "There is that."

Her mind whirled with the implications of that sort of virus causing that sort of reaction in a human being. How did he contract it? Where had it come from? And how had he been able to leap off her autopsy table an hour after being declared dead?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. A smartly dressed man walked in carrying a clipboard and pen, not even looking at them as he pulled a metal chair away from the wall and sat down.

"State your name and occupation, please," he said in a clipped tone.

"Sherlo – "

"Not yours, hers," the man said, pointing with the pen.

Molly swallowed. "Molly Hooper, Specialty Registrar," she said.

"And you were authorized to perform the post mortem of the deceased Peter Welmsley?" the man continued, writing quickly.

"Y-yes," Molly confirmed, slightly confused by the line of questioning. "He was brought to me as a case of special interest."

"And you can confirm he was not showing signs of life when you started?"

"Well, yes," she said, trying her best to recollect the moments before things had gone downhill. "He wasn't moving, he was showing the proper start of discoloration – "

"No vitals confirmed," the man said, making another note.  
Molly frowned, watching him. Had she just been insulted for her post mortem technique?

"There's usually no reason to check for vital signs by the time they get to me," she said through her teeth, earning a short chuckle from Sherlock.

Her interrogator glanced up, lifting an eyebrow. "What were the first signs of animation?"

Molly took a deep breath and told him every detail of what had happened, from the first muscle twitch to the horrific return to life and her finally ending it with the bone saw. In the moment, she had been terrified, but in recounting the event, everything finally came into focus and she realized just how lucky she was to have escaped without injury.

"To clarify," the man said. "The moment he ceased to display signs of life was when you severed his spinal column?"

"Yes," Molly told him with a nod.  
"And you can confirm all of this?" he asked Sherlock.

"Every bit of it," Sherlock said sharply.  
The man nodded, capped his pen, and stood to leave the room.

"Wait!" Molly exclaimed, glancing uncertainly over at Sherlock. "Is that all? Are we free to go now?"

"Those are all the questions I have for you at this time, yes," the unnamed bureaucrat said. "However, your release hasn't been authorized yet."

When Molly demanded to know when that would happen, the man ignored her and continued out the door. It closed behind him with a clang, and Molly heard the lock being engaged. She turned to Sherlock, annoyed that he seemed perfectly calm. "Can you believe this?"

"All too well," he replied coolly. "Judging by the speed with which my brother and his military lackeys arrived in the morgue and we were whisked away to this facility..."

"This isn't an isolated incident," Molly finished slowly.

The idea of others possibly facing the same horrific situation she had sent a chill up her spine. But it made sense; how else would Mycroft have known to send in the military and HAZMAT team to the St. Barts morgue unless Mr. Welmsley's symptoms had been reported and recognized? Of course it was also possible that he'd simply been monitoring the CCTV cameras – spying on his brother – but she thought he'd finally stopped all that nonsense years ago. Then again, with either a resurrected Jim Moriarty or an imposter still on the loose, who knew what security measures Sherlock's brother might deem necessary?

The sound of the door opening caught her attention; she and Sherlock both looked up to see Mycroft Holmes stroll into the room in all his three-piece-suited glory.

"Miss Hooper, Sherlock," he said, gracing them with a cool look apiece. "Ready to go home?"

Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and deliberately leaned back in his chair, looking as if he had every intention of settling in for the long haul. "Not until you tell us what's going on."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You don't already know? Wouldn't care to...hazard a guess?"

"Not without more facts at my disposal," Sherlock scoffed. "I presume there are files for me to examine?"

Mycroft gave him an unreadable smile, as unflappable as ever. "You're not investigating this, Sherlock. You don't _need_ any files."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Molly knew that look. It was the one that meant he was perfectly aware when someone was lying to his face.

"Would that be because there _aren't_ any files?" he asked

"Your escort is waiting to take you back to Baker Street," Mycroft said, completely ignoring his brother's question. He gave Molly a tight-lipped smile, one she assumed was supposed to be apologetic as he added: "Both of you, I'm afraid. Much easier to deal with you both in one location."

"You mean keep us from telling anyone what happened in the morgue," Sherlock corrected him crossly.

Mycroft responded with a one-shouldered shrug. "Secrecy is paramount, Sherlock; no one wants a panic about what I can assure you has been an isolated incident..."

"Bullshit," Molly interrupted angrily. She'd been happy to let the two brothers spar, but that blatant untruth was more than she could take. Both Holmes men gave her startled looks as she stood up and rested her fists on the table. "If this was an 'isolated incident' the soldiers and HAZMAT teams wouldn't have been so quick to respond." She fixed Mycroft with what she hoped was a steely gaze. "This has happened before."

His smile was a little more sincere this time. "I'll acquire an incident report for you. As soon as the information retrieved from St. Barts and your medical data has been collated and added to the database."

As far as both Molly and Sherlock were concerned, that was tantamount to an admission that they were right in their assumptions; Molly could practically _see_ Sherlock's mind working through the puzzle now that their surmises had been tacitly confirmed, but Mycroft refused to say another word, simply waited for them to follow him from the room.


	4. Boy Eats Girl

The ride to Baker Street was mostly silent after Molly's single – futile – attempt to talk Mycroft into letting her go back to her own flat. "At least let me pack some clothes, and my cat – !"

"A neighbor has kindly volunteered to watch Toby for you while you're away – family emergency of an unspecified nature – and the necessary personal belongings have already been delivered to Baker Street."

And that, it would seem, was the end of the discussion. The occupants of the car settled into a tense silence. Mycroft busied himself with his mobile, Molly tried to keep herself from fretting, and Sherlock stared out the window, fingers steepled beneath his lips, no doubt roaming the halls of his mind palace in search of something that might help him solve this unsettling new mystery.

If Mycroft hadn't been there, Molly would have shaken Sherlock, demanded that he talk to her...and not about the fact that zombies had gone from horror-movie fodder to all-too-horrible fact, but about something that the two of them _wouldn't_ be receiving reports about: namely, the kiss.

She got angry all over again thinking about it: how dare he do such a thing without asking her how she felt about him first? Well, of course, she'd kissed him back just as passionately so that boat had well and truly sailed, but it was the idea of it. Permission had been neither asked for nor granted, not verbally anyway...

 _That was incredibly hot._

Molly almost snorted at the memory of his words. Only Sherlock Holmes would be turned on by her wielding a bone saw against a reanimated corpse! Then again, if she'd known that was what it would take, she'd have staged a fake zombie apocalypse years ago!

Well, no, her conscience chided her, she wouldn't have. But oh, she would have been sorely tempted!

Their arrival at Baker Street interrupted her chaotic thoughts. If either she or Sherlock expected to enter the building on their own, they were sadly mistaken; two of Mycroft's men were waiting by the door, and escorted them inside.

Mycroft came upstairs with them as well; after he'd had a quiet word with the two guards and sent them down to take up posts inside the front door, he turned back to regard his brother and Molly. Sherlock had thrown himself into his chair while Molly investigated the small pile of her belongings that had been deposited on the coffee table. "No laptop?" she asked, although she already knew the answer as she glanced over at Mycroft.

He shook his head and gave another one of those tight-lipped smiles he favored. "No, I'm afraid not, Miss Hooper. No computers, no mobiles, no outside communication until we're certain we've got this situation back under control."

Sherlock gave an inelegant snort. "As if you ever had it under control in the first place. So when are those oh-so-detailed incident reports going to arrive, hmm?"

"First thing in the morning," Mycroft replied. Somehow it didn't sound like a promise, in spite of the confidence with which he spoke.

Sherlock gave a skeptical huff in response, raising his fingers to his lips and closing his eyes.

Sherlock gave a skeptical huff in response, raising his fingers to his lips and closing his eyes.

"Good-bye, brother dear. I'm sure you've got more important things to do than try to explain how someone managed to bring on a literal zombie apocalypse in Great Britain."

"It will never reach that level; stop being so dramatic," Mycroft grumbled. But Molly could hear the slightest hesitation in his voice, could see it in his eyes, and wondered if he was half as confident as he was trying to make them believe.

Sherlock gave Mycroft a skeptical look before barking out a single word. "Moriarty?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Unlikely, but not impossible. You didn't uncover any sort of connection to bioweapons research when you were dismantling his crime syndicate, and he never struck me as the type who wanted to watch the entire world crumble, not when he might one day rule over it instead."

Sherlock reached for his violin, which Mycroft clearly viewed as a threat of some sort as he immediately headed for the door. He paused on the threshold to add, "And Sherlock? Do keep in mind that the guards inside are not the only ones keeping watch, so if you're inclined to try and shinny down a drain pipe, rest assured, one of my very competent men will be waiting to escort you back inside."

Sherlock merely tilted his head back and waved dismissively.

With a muttered, "Good day, Miss Hooper," Mycroft Holmes left the flat, closing the door firmly behind him.

As soon as she heard the main door to the building slam shut, Molly turned to Sherlock. "All right. Explain yourself."

He cracked open one eye, his brow scrunched as he said, "Molly, I know as much as you do. Well, perhaps I might have deduced a bit more than..."

"No, not that," Molly said, brushing his words aside as if the dead coming back to life wasn't the most important thing that had happened today.

"Ah, you mean about your ex," Sherlock said with a slightly amused smirk, closing his eyes again. "Don't worry, even I have doubts that he's at the heart of this. He always was more interested in mind games than massacres. Particularly world-wide massacres."

"Still not it, you great, thick headed genius." She moved purposefully across the room, plucking the violin and bow from his hands and laying them carefully on the floor next to his chair. He allowed her the actions, watching her through narrowed eyes, but there was something in the way he was looking at her that told her she'd made the right decision to confront him. A faint hint of alarm behind the deliberately nonchalant expression he presented her with.

"Molly, I have no idea what – " Sherlock began, but Molly was having none of it; she reached out and pressed her index finger against his lips. He was so surprised that he actually stopped talking.

Molly took immediate advantage of his silence. Narrowing her eyes, she said, "The kiss, Sherlock. What the hell was that all about?" She pulled her hand away and gazed at him expectantly.

A panicked expression flashed across his face, so quickly that Molly half-thought she'd imagined it. "Heat of the moment," he finally mumbled, his hands gripping the oversized arms of his chair. "Adrenaline. The sight of you wielding a bone saw as a defensive weapon stirred some, ah, unexpectedly primal..."

"You said it was hot," Molly cut in, leaning down very deliberately so that their faces were only

inches apart, her hands close to his on the arms of the chairs. "You said it was hot and then you kissed me. Why? And don't," she added as he opened his mouth, " _don't_ even try that adrenaline crap again. If adrenaline got your hormones going that way, then I'm pretty sure John would have punched you for trying to kiss him long ago."

His lips twitched into a reluctant smile. "Yes, well, true enough, but that would only have happened if I was gay. Which I'm not, so..." He shrugged.

"So what?" she countered, leaning even closer. He shifted uncomfortably, the smile disappearing and a definite expression of consternation taking its place. "Now I know you're not gay. So is this your way of letting me know you're also not asexual?"

His eyes flashed with annoyance. "I never said I was," he bit out, straightening a bit in his seat, feet firmly on the floor as if he might propel himself upward at any moment. Which would undoubtedly result in mashed foreheads, but Molly refused to move out of the way. "I merely chose to repress that part of my nature in favor of my intellectual pursuits."

"Right." Molly nodded; she understood that, even approved to a certain extent. Certainly Sherlock's mind was the part of himself he valued the most, and rightly so. Of course, his incredibly fit form, amazing eyes, dangerously sharp cheekbones and full, plump lips were nothing to sneeze at either. "But you still haven't actually answered my question. Why did you kiss me?"

With that question he actually did jump to his feet, adroitly grasping her by the upper arms and swinging her out of the way so that no one ended up with a bruised forehead. However, when he let her go and turned to storm off somewhere – his bedroom? – Molly dug in her heels, suddenly furious with him for this childish attempt at evasion. She'd had enough mysteries thrown at her today to last a lifetime, and this was one question she was determined to get an answer to.

With that in mind, she grabbed the back collar of his scrubs, yanking hard, startling a muffled grunt from his lips. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" she yelled. "Just answer the goddamned question! _Why did you kiss me?_ "

"Because I wanted to!" he shouted back at her, tugging himself free of her grip and turning to face her, once again grasping her by the upper arms. Molly barely noticed as his fingers dug into her flesh, too stunned by his confession to do more than gape up at him. "Because I've wanted to kiss you since I returned from my 'death'," he snarled. "But you had Meat Dagger, and then I had to deal with Magnussen, and then fucking Moriarty came back from the dead...it was never the right time! It still isn't the right time," he added angrily. "But I don't fucking care anymore! Wrong time or not..." He gave her a wild look, then swooped in for another kiss, this one even more desperate, more passionate than the first.

There was never any question of how she would respond; her hands landed on his chest as he yanked her closer and her mouth moved against his with equal passion. When his tongue slid between her lips, she gladly opened for him; when he ground what felt like a more-than-adequate erection against her midsection, she hooked a leg around his thigh and pulled him even closer.

The kiss was hard and dangerous and exactly what she'd always wanted a kiss from Sherlock to be; lips and tongue, panting breaths and a feverish heat radiating from their entwined forms. Molly's hands moved from his chest up to his shoulders and from there to that glorious head of hair, tugging at the damp curls none-too-gently and pulling a groan from his lips as she did so.

They broke apart, panting and wild-eyed, only to yank off the borrowed medical scrubs and trainers they'd been given, tossing the clothing to the floor before crashing together again for another desperate series of kisses. Molly reached down and grasped his erection, not gently, and

he groaned against her lips before reaching up to tug the elastic from her hair.

She gasped as he swung her into his arms and marched at a furious pace to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them and not so much setting her on the bed as falling onto it with her. His mouth was impatient and demanding against hers, his hands everywhere she wanted them to be, her own urgently gripping every part of him they could reach. Legs tangled, her breasts mashed against the smooth hardness of his chest, his erection burning a hard line against her thigh, her hip, the softness of her lower abdomen. Never quite where she needed to feel it, but never more than a teasing few inches away.

"Sherlock," she groaned, running her fingers through his curls again. "Please..."

She wasn't entirely sure what she wanted him to do, but as soon as he began kissing his way down her torso, she felt a tingling sense of anticipation over her entire body. "Oh, God, yes," she moaned, fingers still playing with his hair as he pressed his lips to the underside of one breast. She sucked in a breath when she felt his hands ghosting down her thighs, sliding between her legs as she automatically opened for him. Then his mouth landed on her sex and the only thing on Molly's mind was the fact that Sherlock's lips and tongue were doing wicked, wicked things to her, things she'd fantasized about but never expected to experience in real life.

His mouth was hot against her equally heated flesh, her natural lubrication gone into overdrive as he sucked her clit into his mouth, scraping it with his teeth and pulling a near scream of pleasure from her lips. His fingers dug into her hips, hard enough to bruise, and she felt the scrape of his fingernails and knew there would be tiny scratches at the top of each bruise.

She didn't care. She didn't care how much damage he did to her, or she to him; this moment had been far too long in coming to waste on fretting over such trivialities. She dug her fingers into his scalp, tugging hard on his curls, matching his moans of pleasure with short cries of her own as he pushed her folds aside with his fingers and began tongue-fucking her in earnest. She came with a harsh cry that burned her throat, fingers clawing at his scalp and legs hugging his body tight to her. He waited until her death-grip relaxed before moving, rising to his knees and staring down at her with a wild, almost feral cast to his eyes and a hint of a snarl on his lips.

Then he descended, his lips crashing onto hers again, the heavy weight of his body pressing her deeper into the mattress, his thighs pushing between hers and his cock resting hot and hard against her sex. She murmured something incoherent against his lips; he grasped her right thigh and lifted it, and with a single thrust he was inside her.

"Sherlock," Molly moaned out his name, a prayer and a plea, begging for more and sighing blissfully as he began to move, a steady, punishing rhythm that vibrated through her body from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair.

"Molly," he gasped in response before diving down for another kiss, nipping at her lower lip then sucking it into his mouth. Her fingers returned to his hair, digging deep into his scalp, her legs wrapping themselves around his waist so she could take him in harder, faster, deeper. His mouth slipped down her throat, teeth digging desperately into the soft flesh above her pulse point, bruisingly hard and gloriously satisfying. Molly came with a near scream, crying out his name over and over again as she rode out her orgasm. Sherlock followed soon after, his movements becoming frenzied, his entire body shuddering as he spilled inside her.

Once they'd come down from their mutual highs, Sherlock rolled off her with a quick kiss, padding barefoot and utterly naked to the bathroom door. Molly heard the sound of running water, some splashing, then Sherlock returned with a warm, wet flannel and proceeded to clean her up. "Thirsty?" he asked once he'd tossed the cloth in the general vicinity of the bathroom door.

"Mm, a glass of water would be nice," Molly agreed, her throat still a bit raw. Sherlock jumped up again and disappeared into the hall. He returned a few minutes later with two glasses of water and a handful of chocolate biscuits; once they'd gulped down the water and devoured the biscuits, Sherlock took the two glasses, put them on his nightstand, and pulled Molly against his body.

He was hard again; she could feel his erection burning against her midsection as he nipped and sucked at her throat. She'd half-expected him to drop off to sleep like every other male partner she'd ever had, and was thrilled that instead he seemed as full of energy and desire as he had been earlier. Their second time was just as frenzied as the first, Molly's orgasm taking her utterly by surprise as she dug her teeth into his shoulder in order to muffle her screams of ecstasy.

After her body had gone limp, he pulled out of her; she groaned a protest, then gasped as he grabbed her, rolling her onto her stomach. "On your knees," he said gruffly, almost a growl, and she shakily obeyed, pillowing her head on her arms and shifting her legs wider apart as he took himself in hand and thrust back into her. He leaned over her, nipping her shoulder, one arm wrapped securely around her waist as he moved inside her. He toyed with her nipples, pinching and squeezing, and unbelievably Molly felt herself building toward a fourth orgasm. When he moved his free hand down to rub his thumb over her clit, she tumbled over the edge, gasping out his name as he pounded into her, thrilling to the sound of his guttural roar as he joined her in completion.

Afterwards he simply collapsed on the bed, one arm over his eyes, breathing heavily while Molly did pretty much the same. She was the one who got up this time and staggered to the bathroom, groping for the discarded washcloth, running it under first cold water, to press against her aching sex, then warm to wipe off the semen running down her thighs. When she finished she rinsed it off and brought it back to Sherlock, who took it with a grunt of what she generously interpreted as thanks. He half-heartedly swiped it over his softening cock, dropped it to the floor and pulled Molly down to lie in the cradle of his arms, her head on his chest and his cheek on her hair.


	5. Quarantine

Molly never really fell asleep. She came close, dozing in Sherlock's arms as she felt his chest rise and fall steadily. His warmth and the comfort of his easy breathing was enough to lull her into a deep sense of relaxation, almost deep enough to forget the darker events of the day.

Her sense of calm started to dissipate when she heard distant sirens wail in the night, never quite ceasing as they normally would. A nearby car screeching followed by the sound of a crash made her jump and she felt Sherlock's arm tighten around her. A moment later he was out of the bed, not bothering with any clothing as he strode out of the bedroom. Molly hesitated, then pulled the blankets away and slid off the mattress, reaching for one of his shirts. She popped a few buttons into place as she hurried after him. The dark silhouette of his body stood out against the windows at the front of the flat.

"What's happening?" she asked, slightly embarrassed by the shake in her voice.

He didn't answer, simply stepped to the side a little to allow her to join him.

Molly crept towards the window, slowly looking out onto Baker Street and what she could see of the city beyond it. She could see the emergency lights and the helicopters sweeping over London. That was frightening enough. It wasn't until she looked down onto the street, her attention caught by movement, and saw the lurching, driven form of a woman making its way down the pavement that she started to panic. The woman's head was lolling back and forth, scouring the street. She looked like she was hunting.

Molly reached out for Sherlock's hand, gripping it hard when she found it. Sherlock said nothing, but pointed out the window to the roof of the building across the street. In the light that was provided by the streetlamps and the moon, she saw the glint of a rifle.

 _Bang!_

The woman dropped in the street.

From out of nowhere, two armored vans came hurtling down Baker Street and ground to a halt in front of the body. Two soldiers jumped out of the back of the first one, immediately running for the body and lifting up the head. The second soldier took a blade from his utility belt, not pausing for a moment before decapitating the body.

Molly winced, closing her eyes. Oh God, what was happening?

 **oOo**

There had been good reason to worry prior to seeing a woman murdered in front of them, but Sherlock's mind registered the seriousness of the situation the moment he saw the body thrown into what amounted to a mobile morgue. He processed what he saw as quickly as he could.

Cranium severed and removed.  
No blood clean up, but extreme caution to avoid fluids.

Body placed in a separate, contained vehicle. No immediate cremation, no opportunity given to let any remnants of the body into the environment.

Second van locked and bolted.  
"They don't know if it's airborne yet," he muttered.

He was almost startled to feel Molly's hand squeeze his, her body jolting next to him as she looked up. He'd almost forgotten she was there, though he refrained from saying so.

"We would be sick," she said. "They wouldn't have let us come back here if... if it could be passed that way."

"It might not have been when it started, but they've lost control of it," he told her.

"They're not taking any chances on mutation rate," she said, fear evident in her voice.

"No," Sherlock agreed, letting go of her hand and moving swiftly behind her to reach under his desk. His hand fumbled around for a moment before – _aha_! There was the sound of tape ripping as he pulled the burner phone from under the desk. He smiled and flipped it in the air before catching it again. Mycroft's men were losing their touch. It wasn't even his best hiding spot to date.

He rapidly punched in a text to his brother, leaving no doubt that if his request wasn't fulfilled he would be out from the grasp of the government in the blink of an eye and Mycroft could forget pulling him back under control again. After the text was sent, he found the Watsons' number and hit send.

The snarled greeting he received for calling at half two in the morning was deserved, but he cut John off quickly.

"John, in a matter of minutes a car is going to come to your house. You will get in it with Alice and Mary and go wherever they decide to take you...Don't bloody argue, just pack whatever is most valuable aside from your wife and child and _go_!"

He barely waited for John's bewildered agreement before ending that call, tossing his mobile onto the cushions of the sofa and beginning to pace back and forth in front of the coffee table. He was acutely aware of Molly watching him and it made it horrendously difficult to think. Pausing for a moment, he put his hands on his bare hips and glanced at her.

They'd made a mistake. _He'd_ made a mistake. Hadn't they? He never should have taken her to bed, not when they were ramped up on fear and adrenaline, never should have let her... do the things she did. Now there would be expectations in the midst of what promised to be a dangerous epidemic.

"Do you have anywhere to go?" he asked her point blank. "Any family, anyone at all that you would want to save?"

Molly stared at him, tight lipped and brown eyes serious. "No," she said quietly. "No one." He heard the subtle, unspoken exception of himself in her words.

"This is going to be bad," she stated, the part of her that was trained in several different kinds of medical and laboratory sciences kicking in.

"It certainly seems that way," Sherlock agreed, peering out the window again. "And my brother and his colleagues don't have the first idea of how it started."

"How do you know?" Molly asked, her voice thin.

"Vague answers. When he has control of a situation, he's cocky. A show-off. They're scrambling. They had no idea this was coming," he murmured. He looked at Molly out of the corner of his eye. "If you don't leave London now, I can't guarantee I can get you out safely later."

"Are you leaving?" Molly asked after a moment of silence. "No."  
"Then neither am I."

He tried to argue with her, of course, but she stayed firm in her determination. "Unless you're going to manhandle me into one of your brother's government sedans, you can't make me leave. I can help," she insisted.

"It's your decision," Sherlock said, turning and walking out of the lounge. "I won't stop you." "So..." Molly started, following him as he headed back into the bedroom. "So...what now?"

His head buzzed a little, knowing full well she wasn't asking if they should go outside with katanas and start helping. He mentally reprimanded himself for not thinking the situation through and for what he was about to do. Once they'd witnessed an infected woman hunted down in the street outside, he knew they were in for a world order change of epic proportions. It would need all of his focus, all of his mental prowess to take on, and Molly... well, Molly already took up more room in his mind than he'd ever anticipated she would. If he let her start to wander into other rooms and corridors, there would be no stopping it.

"You can stay here until they have a handle on things outside," he suggested, pulling on a fresh pair of pants. "Your building is secure, I see no reason for you to fear going back."

"Oh," she exhaled, and he could see her visibly deflate. "So we're going to pretend this never happened, then."

"Not necessary, unless you decide you'd rather forget it," he offered somewhat distractedly, gathering clothing as he scanned the room for the burner phone. Oh, right, he'd left it on the sofa. He turned, and she was closer than she had been.

"Well, how... how are we... what are we now? To each other?" "I don't follow."  
"How are we supposed to... _be_ around each other?"

It took him a few moments to register the genuine look of distress on her face before he realized she thought things had changed irreversibly. Not good, not right...how to tell her that this needed to happen because she was _too_ important?

"Oh, I see," he said, comfortingly, he thought. "Things needn't change, Molly. I've always had a great admiration for your professionalism and I assure you I will treat you with equal respect."

She frowned. "Professionalism?"

Ah. Wrong word choice, he realized. "Friends," he practically exclaimed. "Friends, we've always been friends, and... I think, I hope, you know that... it's a rarity for me – "

"Are you seriously giving me the 'let's just be friends' speech right now?" she asked, her tone low and her arms crossed over her chest, crinkling the fabric of his shirt.

He pursed his lips, looking down, shamed. "You are more than a friend," he said gently, glancing towards the bed that they'd made a mess of together. He opened his mouth to say more, but she held up a hand to stop him before running it through her mussed hair.

"I don't want to hear the 'but' that starts that sentence," she said, bending down to pull her clothing from the floor and heading towards the bathroom.

"Molly..."

She turned and looked at him with an expression that let him know she wasn't expecting any sort of declaration and was too tired and frightened to hear empty promises. Instead, her lips tugged up momentarily in a sad smile and she slipped into the loo.

She wasn't the only one to ignore his wishes to vacate London. John and Mary, completely against his direction, showed up on the stoop of 221 two days later. To say he was upset at their total lack of cooperation would be an understatement. It was a tense few days at Baker Street.

"I told you to take your child and leave London," he snapped, too flustered to stop them when they shoved their way into his flat.

"She has a name, Sherlock," John said, dropping two suitcases on the floor of the sitting room. " _Alice_ is in the care of your parents outside of New Byth. She's safe."

"And you would be too if you weren't both clinging to a hero complex." "What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Mary demanded.

"It means you're so eager to participate in saving the world from this," Sherlock gestured out the window towards the growing chaos outside, "that you're willing to risk your lives rather than staying with your offspring in Scotland where it's _safe_."

Mary opened her mouth, ready to rip him a new one.

"No, don't," John said, holding his hand up to her before pointing at Sherlock. "Don't engage. He's just trying to pull you into an argument."

"It's working," Mary said, glowering at Sherlock.

"What exactly do you think you are going to be able to contribute here?" Sherlock questioned them, his eyes narrowing.

"Doctor," John said, pointing at himself and then Mary. "Nurse. I think we're a _bit_ more qualified to contribute to the situation than the world's leading expert on tobacco varieties."

"What do you know of 'the situation?'" Sherlock asked derisively.

"A fair amount," Mary told him, settling herself purposefully on the sofa. "It's not that hard to put two and two together about what's happening out there."

Of course he should have expected someone with as much intelligence and cunning as Mary to understand what England (and the world) was facing. And John, ever the man of action, had been ready from the first to lend his medical expertise to save the country.

Thus the two of them settled into John's old residence in Baker Street for the foreseeable future. It was Sherlock's fervent wish – for a multitude of reasons – that their stay would be a short one.


	6. 28 Days Later

London had been irreparably changed. He wouldn't go so far as to say the city he looked at from the roof of St. Bartholomew's faced the same destruction his parents had witnessed decades before, but in many ways it was struggling against an enemy bent on its demise, however mechanical that enemy was. A great majority of the population had succumbed to the swift spread of the virus or had fled under the hopes of escaping infection.

What a sorry lot _that_ left. The rest of the world had not been spared and it was worse in many other places. Sherlock had been privy to some classified reports that left little to the imagination regarding the fate of portions of Eastern Europe, China, the United States... Broadcasts came through from time to time and small cities were surviving, but they were the exception and not the rule. Ironically, the wall forming part of the border between the US and Mexico, originally designed to keep illegal aliens from getting in, now served to protect Mexico from American infected. Countries in South America and the Middle East had gone on lockdown, shutting their borders and deciding that self-preservation was the best choice. One month in, it was still unclear if that tactic had worked or failed.

For London, it was a patchwork of safety and exposure. Using America's unintended example, walls had been erected around portions of the city, as much to keep things out as to keep them in. People who wanted to take advantage of the chaos and find little ways to profit, smuggling under the cover of night from one area to another, were often the sources of new outbreaks. The government quickly grew tired of warnings and the punishment for unauthorized movement between sections became severe.

Tube stations were heavily guarded and only offered limited transport. The fact that the trains stopped near Baker Street at all was mostly due to Mycroft's influence. Sherlock suspected that his big brother had no desire to deal with extracting Sherlock from military custody for unapproved travel. Far easier to just give him a direct route to Barts Hospital.

Easier, and more convenient, since Sherlock often dragged John away from duties at the hospital to look into clues about the source of the infections. The two of them, along with Lestrade, had been allowed access to more detailed information than the general public – Sherlock because he became a thorn in Mycroft's side until he was appeased and Lestrade because he and Donovan were in charge of local investigations within London. Their daily lives had been consumed with digital tracking of new infections, the rate of travel and spread of the disease, and watching for places where it ebbed and flowed in unnatural ways. Peter Welmsley had not been an isolated incident, just as Molly had suspected. Others around the globe became infectious within hours of the Barts event, all from different sources and all with different trails leading to their infected status. It was as though a dozen cases sprang up in isolation without cause or reason.

There had to be a connection. The likelihood of the virus developing the same mutation simultaneously around the world was so low it was hardly worth considering. No, it was a deliberately timed infection. One that Sherlock thought very likely to have been manufactured, not that he'd broached that subject with his brother or anyone else in charge. They knew so little about it, other than the basic facts: it was aggressively spread through saliva and could be contracted with even minute contact with fluids; it completely destroyed the cortical and cerebral cortex of the brain; and, unlike the classic virus, it allowed its victims to continue living so long as they had regular access to...meals. For lack of a better term.

And despite what he'd told Molly, Sherlock still wasn't entirely convinced that Moriarty's electronic reappearance had nothing to do with it. The transmissions had stopped as abruptly as they'd begun, with no gloating or threats made, no attempts at blackmail, no cure being offered to the highest bidder...nothing. Complete and utter silence. What that meant, he was still attempting to figure out.

It might be easier, he mused grouchily one morning while preparing for another exhausting day, if certain people had just done as he'd asked and left London. John and Mary...and Molly. Who, due in part to his connections and ease of transport to Barts when most places in London were cordoned off, had taken up residence at 221. She'd slipped seamlessly into the renovated basement flat of the building, orange tabby in tow. She and the Watsons would eat breakfast down there before rushing off to the hospital, on the days when John wasn't needed for Sherlock's investigations into the source of the plague. She avoided setting foot in 221B. She sang when she showered and he could hear the sound of her off-key voice drifting up through the pipes to his bedroom every morning.

She treated him professionally, just as he'd asked her to.

Sherlock didn't think he'd ever effectively delete the look on her face when he'd told her pragmatically in the wee hours before dawn that there was no room for emotional complications with all that was happening. He might've been kinder about it, might've cushioned the blow for her a little more, but he'd wanted to move past it as quickly as possible and begin concentrating on the killer virus. He would deal with the crushing guilt that swamped him from the way she looked at him...compartmentalize it, place it in a box with every other moment he'd let her down. It wasn't as though that method had ever come back to haunt him before, he thought cynically.

That night was the last time in the past month he'd seen her even remotely smile in his direction. Fortunately, they all had a veritable zombie apocalypse to distract them from more personal issues.

From his position perched on the edge of Barts rooftop, Sherlock watched the military helicopters that constantly circled London. It had become part of daily life, hearing the hum of the aircraft. If there ever came a day when the noise stopped, it would signal the beginning of the end.

"Ahem."

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and saw John standing near the roof door, hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes flicking around the rooftop.

"We're done for the day," John said. "Only three put down. Thought we might grab a curry to celebrate the low number."

"And?" Sherlock pressed, not budging from his spot.

"And the vaccine trials are still not working."

"And?"

"And," John snapped, finally looking at him. "It would be really bloody fantastic if you would stop faffing about on this rooftop."

Sherlock smiled slowly and hopped down from the ledge, pulling his coat around him as he walked towards his friend.

"Nothing to worry about," he said. "I'm not fond of repeating tricks."

"Oh, well," John said, giving him a tight smile. "Best friend of the year award goes to you."

Sherlock pulled the metal access door open and held it for John, waiting for him to walk inside before following. "Something upsetting you?" he asked.

"No, no, nothing upsetting at all," John ranted as he made his way downstairs, his voice echoing slightly in the stairwell. "Nothing upsetting about having to put a woman out of her misery and hand her baby off to social services, not on the day I receive a text from your mother with a picture of my child laughing for the first time. Why would I be upset?"

"You can still go to her, John," Sherlock told him, trying to understand what it was he was supposed to say to make the situation better.

"Yeah," John said with a frustrated sigh. "But Mary and I have the ability to _help_. What good is it if I can't make this world safe for Alice to grow up in?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, but he kept his mouth shut. Sometimes he just didn't understand other people's reasoning. John and Mary missed their daughter. The obvious solution would be to go to Scotland and be with her. Their insistence on staying in London under the premise that they could help find a cure was admirable, if a bit confusing.

Once they reached the main lab, they found Mary talking to a technician about proper treatment for a few patients in the hospital. Despite becoming a center for infected individuals, in addition to being ground zero for the outbreak in England, Barts still had to fulfill its role in caring for everyday disease.

Molly was across the room, her head lowered as she worked her way through test results under a fume hood. Sherlock suspected she was overworking herself. She'd left Baker Street early and come home far too late in recent days. Having been the first one to encounter the effects of the virus, she'd been recruited to join in the efforts to find a way to stop it. Of course, being the hard working, selfless person that she was, this was added onto her usual duties as pathologist.

Mary smiled at them as they walked towards her, signing off on one more form before handing it back to the technician. "Joining us for dinner?" she asked Sherlock.

"I suppose," he said.

"Molly?" Mary called, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of the hood fan. Molly turned slightly, opening her mouth and then stopping when she saw Sherlock.

"Um," she replied, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. "I'll catch up with you later."

"Okay," Mary said, looking slightly disappointed. "Don't work too late."

Molly gave her a half-smile, glanced at Sherlock, and quickly looked away and refocused on her work.

 **oOo**

The remodeled basement flat of Baker Street was certainly not much compared to the flat Molly used to occupy. She missed her large windows that looked down onto the shops and the clawfoot bathtub that beckoned at the end of long days. But Baker Street was safe and her old flat was in the middle of destruction, so she found she couldn't muster up enough reason to complain. Toby certainly wasn't complaining, not when there was a nice sunny spot on the carpet for him to bask in for the majority of the afternoon and the warmth of the hearth on cold evenings.

That was where they were both spread out that evening, trying to cope with the rolling blackouts that were hitting the neighborhood. Molly was taking advantage of the quiet in the building while the rest of its occupants were out for dinner, her laptop open with every power saving mode on and a good old fashioned notebook next to it. She had several medical texts open and was poring over the information on _Lyssavirus_ for the millionth time, hoping to catch some key piece that she hadn't noticed before. Viruses hadn't been her expertise in school, but she'd made up for that in recent weeks.

Molly tapped her pen against the page she was staring at, reading the paragraph on protein coats once again. It wasn't quite the information she needed. The information she needed was in a book on a bookshelf two stories above her. Dropping the pen, she removed her tortoise shell glasses and rubbed at her eyes before looking up at the ceiling.

If she was quick, she could probably retrieve the text and be back down to her flat in less than two minutes.

She pushed herself off of the floor and straightened her jumper, padding quickly out of her flat and taking the stairs two at a time. Mrs. Hudson's flat was dark and quiet. The landlady had been ushered to her sister's house in the country when things took a turn for the worse. She had originally suggested that Molly take over the main floor, but Molly felt odd about stepping into someone else's home, much preferring her own space.

As usual, Sherlock had left 221B wide open (it was amazing the man hadn't been robbed blind yet). The place was a tip and she carefully crossed the room to the bookshelf in the corner, avoiding piles of papers and a few questionable looking mugs of liquid. Her fingers slid across the spines of the books as she scanned the titles, trying to clamp down the stirring she felt in her body at the mere smell of his space.

"C'mon c'mon, hurry," she muttered to herself, kneeling down to look at a lower shelf.

She heard the front door open and bang shut and her heart jumped. Feeling oddly foolish, as though she'd been caught snooping in his things, Molly stood up straight and whirled around just in time to see Sherlock stride through the door to the sitting room. He hardly gave her a second glance as he pulled off his gloves, scarf, and coat and tossed them on the plaid chair by the hearth.

"Which one do you need?" he asked. "Virus dynamics," she said.

She didn't mean to make it so obvious, but she side-stepped when he crossed in front of her to pull the text from the top shelf (turned spine back, of course). Sherlock paused as he pulled the book down, tilting his head in a hawk-like manner to look at her.

"Care to tell me why you've been avoiding me?" "I'm not."

"I don't claim to be an expert on human behavior, but barely looking at me or talking to me and avoiding all physical contact would seem to indicate otherwise," he said.

Molly shrugged, clasping her hands in front of her. "Just trying to be professional."

"You're not being professional, you're throwing a tantrum," Sherlock said conclusively, holding the text out to her.

In that moment, Molly lost any sort of a filter she had managed to keep over her feelings. She reached out and yanked the book from his hands, feeling her cheeks flame.

"You slept with me and then told me it was a mistake, I think I'm entitled," she snapped.

"I never said – "

"Well you implied – "

"The _timing_ , Molly!" he shouted over her, breaking away from their close stance and moving towards his desk. "There is the matter of a deadly, world-wide epidemic to worry about, not to mention the possible return of your psychotic ex-boyfriend, or have your forgotten about that?"

"We only went out on three dates!" she huffed as she followed him, too caught up in the argument to remember that she was trying to avoid physical proximity. "That hardly makes him my ex- boyfriend!"

"Not how I remember you introducing him when you were using him to try to make me jealous!" he sneered, turning abruptly as she stopped, only inches away from him.

"I wasn't trying to make you jealous – and if we're dragging up the past, maybe you can explain to me how you knew I'd gained two and a half pounds? Exactly why was my weight relevant to any cases you might have been working?" If he wanted snarky, she could give snarky, and then some!

"It was three pounds," he shot back. "And noticing things about you is just something I do. Which is another reason we shouldn't have done what we did when we did it!" He raked his fingers through his hair the way he always did when he was agitated. "We distract one another. We need to focus on the problems at hand, without the added complication of sentiment. Things are tense enough, don't you think?"

"God forbid we relieve that with a little sex from time to time," Molly replied sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

To her surprise, her words seemed to stop Sherlock in his tracks momentarily. He looked at her, his jaw thrust forward as he frowned.

"Yes, well," she huffed after a moment. "You think on that, I need to go read about protein coats." "Protein coats?" he repeated as she walked towards the door.

"We think it might have something to do with rapidly changing coating, but we're not sure," she informed him.

"I didn't know the research had gone in that direction," he said, his frown turning petulant.

"You can come into the lab anytime and find out," Molly reminded him with a hint of annoyance.

"You leave whenever I walk in."

"I'll stay next time."

"The other pathologists don't like – "

"I live downstairs from you!" Molly finally shouted. "Thirty stairs and you can ask me anything you like! Unless you're indulging a little tantrum of your own, Sherlock."

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

Molly whirled around and nearly knocked over Mary and John who had come in sometime during their argument and were standing silently on the landing. She muttered an embarrassed apology and stormed out of the room, huffing angrily and clattering down the stairs.


	7. State of Emergency

Mary looked at John and they both raised their eyebrows. John pointed down the stairs. "Did you want to...?"

Mary nodded, her nose scrunching up. "Yeah, and you...?" she said, pointing towards Sherlock.

"Brilliant," he agreed, smiling at her before she followed after Molly. He turned and looked at a flustered, flushed Sherlock. A light went on in his head. "Ohhh. So you finally did it. You finally slept with her. And how did that go?"

"Very well, she orgasmed four times," Sherlock practically bellowed. "It's beyond me why she's being... so..."

He trailed off, gesticulating towards the door. John took a few deep, calming breaths and tried to restart his brain.

"Not... what I meant," he said firmly.

"But you asked - "

" _Not_ what I meant!"

 **oOo**

"Molly? D'you mind?" Mary peered through the half-opened door to 221C, prepared to make a tactful withdrawal if necessary. But only as far as Mrs. Hudson's flat, being sure to give John and Sherlock enough time to shout at one another about the current domestic crisis.

"Come in." The invitation was noticeably lacking in enthusiasm, but Mary would take what she could get, under the circumstances. She spared a moment to be thankful that Mrs. Hudson wasn't around, knowing how uneasy the older woman became around angry shouting. Sherlock shooting at the walls in boredom she could take in her stride, but anything that even hinted at the possibility of domestic violence...there was a story there, but not one Mary ever wanted to ask her about.

Molly, on the other hand, had a story she very much wanted to hear. "Wanna talk about it?"

The other woman was settled on on the orange Danish modern sofa Sherlock had produced from somewhere when it proved to be too difficult to get Molly's furniture here. Mary knew Billy Wiggins and the Homeless Network – such as it was these days – had been involved. Many of them had fallen victim to the virus, others had been transported out of London, none of them were allowed to doss in the streets. Of course, there were still plenty of ways to escape the eyes of the military and police that had the city under lockdown. Not as many as there had been once upon a time, but with Sherlock's clandestine help many of them now occupied otherwise abandoned flats, and continued to assist Sherlock whenever he needed them.

Such as making sure Molly Hooper had comfortable, if somewhat loud and tacky, furniture. "How much did you hear?"

"Just the end bits," Mary admitted as she brought her attention back to the moment at hand. She moved into the flat and took a seat opposite Molly on the sofa. "And, er, of course, the part Sherlock just shouted..." Her voice trailed off apologetically and she shrugged. "Hard to miss that."

"Idiot," Molly muttered with a baleful glare ceilingward. "So now you know, Sherlock and I had sex." She gave Mary a sideways look. "But you already knew that, didn't you."

"Busted," Mary admitted quietly. "But it didn't seem like you wanted to talk about it, only now John's finally caught on, so..." She gave a half-shrug. "Do you want to talk about it now? And by talk about it, I mean tell me what a complete and utter twat Sherlock's been while we drown our sorrows in that smashing red you have stashed away in the back of your fridge?"

Molly's smile became wider and more genuine. "Yeah, you get the glasses, I'll get the corkscrew!"

Five minutes later, glasses in hands, they returned to the sofa, curled on either end with Toby stretched out on his back and purring between them. Mary gave her friend time to sip her way through a third of her glass before saying, "Let me guess, he told you it was a mistake."

"Not in so many words," Molly admitted, moodily staring down at her utterly relaxed cat. His purring grew louder as she leaned over to rub him gently under the chin. "He said the timing was wrong, but when isn't it? He wasn't even ready to call me a friend before he jumped off the roof at Barts, or at least I thought he wasn't until he asked me to help him. That was the first time I realized I mattered to him at all, did you know that?"

Mary shook her head, fascinated by this glimpse into Molly's innermost thoughts and feelings, absurdly grateful to have someone who was so open and caring in her life. Molly had been upset when she'd found out that Mary was the one who'd shot Sherlock, naturally enough, but knowing that Mary truly regretted her desperate actions that night – and that both John and Sherlock had already forgiven her for that mistake – had been all Molly needed to know before accepting the muddled truth of Mary's past and moving on. They'd been friendly before all that; now they were truly friends, in a way Mary had faked being with Janine after discovering her ties to Magnussen.

She would never even _think_ of using Molly Hooper that way, no matter what the circumstances. What she would always do was be there for her friend, who was working so tirelessly to find a cure for a horrific plague they still had no origin for. If it was truly Jim Moriarty back from the dead, he'd certainly made good on his threat to burn the heart out of Sherlock, the man who loved London as if it were his third parent. Well, fourth after Mrs. Hudson, Mary thought fondly, turning her attention back to Molly.

The woman who loved Sherlock and who was in turn loved by him, or else Mary had entirely lost her touch.

"Molly, can I be honest with you?"

The pathologist looked up at her, somewhat wide-eyed.

"For years, it was my job to know people better than they know themselves," Mary said. "My life depended on it. Other people's lives depended on it. Trust me when I say that, despite his desperate attempts to be a prickly pear, Sherlock knows how to love. And he enjoys it. But... he's also a giant prat."

Molly laughed, taking another sip of her wine.

"He really is," Mary continued, smiling. "He chooses the exact wrong way to tell people he loves them. And I think that... I dunno, he thinks by holding you at arm's length during all of this, he's doing the right thing by you. I mean, what could he think he has to offer you right now with this happening?" She gestured at the opened books and articles and lab results Molly had strewn over the coffee table and floor.

"Besides a roll in the hay?" Molly asked softly, glancing up at her.

"Mm, besides that," Mary said, grinning at her. "Although I've heard that that aspect wasn't so bad."

"It really wasn't," Molly confessed, then sighed. "You're right, though. Timing...it's _really_ never been our thing."

"It never is with Sherlock Holmes," Mary agreed.

 **oOo**

John sat in uncomfortable silence, his forehead lowered to the clean (he hoped) surface of the kitchen table, his arms stretched out above his head. He knew Sherlock was a smart man. He'd seen dozens if not hundreds of instances where Sherlock had put his massive intellect to good use and had even managed to have some grasp of human behavior in order to solve a case. Half of the cases they took on involved affairs or jilted lovers or marriages that had become bitter. Sherlock had to have some understanding of what not to do when you _actually_ cared about someone. At the very least he thought his friend had been paying attention to the way he and Mary had repaired their own relationship.

Apparently not.

"Never, ever, ever tell a woman sleeping with her was a mistake," he muttered.

"But it was."

"Was it though?" John asked tiredly, lifting his head to look at him. "Or did you just manage to twist it that way in that pretzel brain of yours?"

"It was a very visceral reaction to an absurd situation and horrendously timed, considering," Sherlock explained through gritted teeth.

John groaned and covered his face with his hands, resting his elbows on the table. He hated conversations like this, really would have rather been doing anything else than giving relationship advice to Sherlock.

"Do you," he started, his voice muffled beneath his palms. "Do you... have _any_ interest in repeating this 'mistake' in the future?"

He watched Sherlock's brain turn for a good thirty seconds, his ice-blue eyes darting a little as he considered some invisible evidence John wasn't privy to.

"It... I can't say _no-o_ ," Sherlock said, drawing out the last word uncertainly.  
"Then it wasn't a mistake," John said with a shrug. "And if you keep calling it that, Molly will never give you another chance."

"No?" Sherlock said with a frown.

"No," John told him, shaking his head once. "Because women do not like to be considered a mistake. Especially women like Molly, who are _never_ a mistake. Right?"

"Right," Sherlock agreed after a lengthy pause during which he seemed to be actually thinking about what John had just told him.

He left the detective to simmer on the conversation, grabbing a small nightcap to unwind as soon as he reached the bedsit at the top of the stairs. He collapsed into the plush armchair by the window and listened to the intermittent whir of the helicopters outside. It had taken a great deal of effort over the previous month to swallow the memories the situation brought up for him. The tanks and gunfire during the first week, not to mention the ever-present aircraft, had his nerves absolutely frayed. He'd snapped at the people around him more than he should have. Waking mid-lunge with Mary holding his arm to keep him from flinging himself off of the bed had occurred more than once. She was a saint for continuing to sleep in the same bed with him.

Speaking of his saintly wife...

John heard her footsteps coming up the stairs. She paused in the doorway, giving him a lopsided smile and a look that said Molly's side of things was just as dumbfounding as Sherlock's.

"How is she?" he asked, holding his hand out.

Mary crossed the bedsit and took it, allowing him to tug her into his lap. She rested her head against his and curled into his body, sighing as he stroked her back.

"Well, I think I talked her down from murdering him," she said.

"That's good. She'd know how to do it well."

"And make it look like an accident."

"The last thing we need is more bodies," John said somberly.

"Not to change the subject too drastically, but when do you check on Mrs. Hardtmeer?" Mary asked, her fingers absently toying with the buttons of his shirt.

"Two days," he told her, thinking for a moment about the infected woman currently in a medically induced coma at Barts. He sighed heavily. "The Milwaukee Protocol only worked once. This is an entirely different game to begin with. I don't know how many more we can experiment with, trying to find the right amount of time to leave them under, before it becomes..."

"Wrong?" Mary finished for him.

"Yeah."

He loved that he didn't have to elaborate. She knew. She knew what his concerns were.

"Any more new ones today?" Mary asked after a few moments of silence.

"Mm," John replied, perking up as he dug in his pocket for his phone. "Quite a few."

The phone lit up and he sat with his wife, smiling wistfully as they stared at pictures of Alice.


	8. Urban Decay

Sherlock half-listened to John clomping up the stairs to his and Mary's temporary digs as he reviewed their conversation, carefully going over it point by point. He still believed it was for the best that he and Molly put their...whatever it was...on hold until the current crisis had been managed, but John made several valid points. He'd clearly gone over a line he hadn't realized even existed when he'd implied that his night with Molly had been a mistake; past experience told him an apology of some kind was warranted.

But he was never good at handling things the right way. The thought of walking down to Molly's flat and asking for forgiveness made him…panic. In the past, it would have been because he thought the gesture was beneath him. But now, deep down, he was...afraid. Afraid that she wouldn't accept his words.

With a growl, Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, tossing them on as he stormed down the stair and out onto the street. He nodded towards the armed guard positioned across the street and made his way quickly towards the tube station. It seemed like the right distraction, riding the train for hours and watching, just watching everyone coming and going. He liked to see how fast he could deduce the secrets of the strangers surrounding him. Of course, before all hell had broken loose, the rides were more varied and stimulating.

He dealt with it anyway. Spent hours upon hours sitting at the back of a car watching people board and exit the tube. Traffic was surprisingly steady considering he sat there all night.

It was during the morning rush hour (or what passed for rush hour these days) that his mind came to a grinding halt as his eyes landed on a woman who entered the car, taking a seat just a few feet from him. Thin, mousy hair, brown eyes under a strong brow, and a square jaw that fit with the rest of her sharp bone structure. She was wearing a frumpy, warm coat over mint-green scrubs and white trainers, a brown bag and purple paper coffee cup balanced on her lap. It took him a moment to place her, the internal Rolodex of people in his mind flipping rapidly until it finally stopped on the one he needed: Jacqui Stapleton. Geneticist. Baskerville. Dartmoor.

She was in London.

How very interesting.

Everything else around him faded into the background as he watched Stapleton, shrinking a little bit in his coat as he stood up when she rose to leave the train at Queensbury station. He managed to follow her unobserved for several minutes before she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes squinting at him before continuing on, picking up her pace. Another few minutes, after passing a couple of soldiers on patrol, and Stapleton whirled around, a small can of pepper spray in her hand.

"What the hell do you want?" she demanded. "Why are you following me?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, raising his gloved hands in mild surrender. "You don't remember me, Doctor Stapleton?" he asked, nearly smirking when she frowned at him, clearly confused. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Bluebell?"

Stapleton let out a breath and her face relaxed, but only slightly. She tucked the pepper spray back into her handbag and shifted the coffee cup back into her free hand.

"Holmes, isn't it?" she said.

"Sherlock," he told her, lowering his hands and clasping them behind his back. "The irresponsible one. In case you needed clarification."

"I remember," she said with a raise of her brow. "And what do you need?"

"You're in London," he stated, looking her up and down. "And working at a clinic."

Stapleton blinked at him, worrying her lower lip just the slightest bit. "And?" she replied shortly.

"How does a woman who once worked for a top-secret government lab wind up working at a clinic in Queensbury? More importantly, why?"

"Change of scenery," Stapleton said with a shrug.

"No," Sherlock said, jumping on the end of her words. "You hate London and that sort of work must bore you to tears every day."

"It's safe here," she explained easily. "For my daughter. Safer than a lot of other places. There's protection. Why wouldn't I want to move here for her during all this?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and froze, his mind conjuring up the events of the first few days of the outbreak. The descent of armed forces, the sudden decrees about taking in outsiders, the surge in xenophobia that gripped all nations around the world. He shut the images and timetables down with a blink of his eyes and refocused on a perplexed Stapleton.

"When did you arrive in London?" he asked slowly, already knowing the answer.

It was clear as day that Stapleton realized her mistake. She held his eye, but swallowed hard, hesitating. "The day...the day before it started," she confessed quietly.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth slowly turned up. Oh, this could work. This could be exactly what they'd been looking for.

"And you just decided to merrily keep it all to yourself as you waited for the inevitable," he suggested.

"No," Stapleton exclaimed, then collected herself as she looked around. "No. I can't...I can't talk about this...here. I'm late for work."

"And you'd best tell your sitter you'll be late coming home as well," Sherlock said firmly. "A simple eight-hour shift, if I'm not mistaken?" Stapleton nodded. "Good. Finsbury Park, then, as soon as you can. Would you care to meet at The Park Cafe, or do you worry about the attention it would bring to you?"

"How did you…"

"Oh, really," Sherlock muttered with a roll of his eyes, reaching out and tapping the coffee cup. "It wasn't even hard, it's printed right on the cup. Save your amazement for a real deduction."

 **oOo**

Stapleton walked through the doors of the cafe exactly nine hours and thirteen minutes later, bypassing the counter filled with pastries and sandwiches. Sherlock had only ordered a tea so as to give the impression of a casual meeting. With the security and surveillance that London had been subject to over the past month, he'd had to give up the suspicious-looking behavior that he wouldn't have cared about before.

Stapleton slid into the seat opposite him, looking as though she wanted to meld into the wall next to the table. She pierced him with a fierce gaze.

"They cannot find me," she said adamantly. "But they probably will. You will do everything in your power, and in your brother's power, to delay that. That is my first request."

Sherlock nodded. He'd been expecting this. A woman like Jacqui Stapleton didn't advance to experimental geneticist at Baskerville by being a doormat.

"My second request is this," she went on, pulling an envelope out of her pocket and sliding it across the table to him. "My daughter is to be sent somewhere safe for now. And if anything happens to me she's to go to my cousin in Paris, the address is inside. Where she lives is just as safe as London, if the news is to be trusted. Your brother can confirm that for me, of course." It wasn't a request. "If I'm found, so be it. But she will remain safe."

Sherlock frowned slightly as he slid a finger under the flap of the envelope and peeked inside. The extra ten minutes that it took for her to arrive must have been spent at the bank.

"I don't need to be bribed – "

"It's not a bribe," Stapleton interrupted. "It's an investment for her. I trust you to take care of that."

His mouth pulled into a thin smile and he tucked the envelope into his interior coat pocket.

"The location that I worked at was in the Guangdong province of China. Foshan," she emphasized, leaning forward. "They had a private building with twelve departments, some dedicated to medical research, others to experimentation and advances. My lab was working on a new vaccine for lyssavirus. It was supposed to be designed for administration during the late stages of the disease, a sure-fire way to save people who would have been too far gone in the past."

"To what point?" Sherlock asked. "There are worse diseases, ones that are far more deadly and in need of attention."

"Rabies can still kill over forty-thousand a year," she countered. "You look into the face of someone who has been exposed and tell me you don't see the fear, the desperation. They know. They know they're done for."

"So what happened?" he pressed, skirting the humanitarian reasoning. "Lab monkeys escape from their cages?"

"Only if you've been watching bad horror movies," she replied, lowering her voice as a couple passed by their table. "I don't know exactly what happened...I wasn't involved. But I happened upon a set of files that I'd never seen before, detailing...different experiments."

"Different?" Sherlock repeated, feeling the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

"It looked...it looked as though they were...trying to make it worse," Stapleton explained, her eyes lowering to the table. "There was information that suggested they were getting ready to...release it."

"And you packed your bags and got you and your daughter on the next flight out of there," he guessed.

"Well, what would you have done if it was your child?"

"I don't have children."

"Thank God for that."

"Yes, it might make me a self-absorbed parent who cares about the safety of my offspring more than the safety of the entire world in the face of an engineered plague," Sherlock said with a curl of his lip.

Stapleton let out a huff of breath and shook her head in disbelief.

"I don't expect you to understand," she told him angrily. "I told you what I know. And I expect you to stick to your end of this."

"On one condition."

"I never agreed to – "

"It's small, I promise," he said with an unfriendly smile. "You come work at Barts to help find an end to this. Since you know so much about the beginning."

Stapleton stared at him, her teeth clenched together and nostrils practically flaring. He knew he had her, and not kindly. He would spare a moment to feel bad about being an arse later.

"I need to make a living, you know," she said firmly.

"That can be arranged."

 **oOo**

The tube ride back to Baker Street flew by as Sherlock typed furiously on his phone, first informing Mycroft of the new situation and arguing with him about the specifics; second, texting Lestrade to meet him at Baker Street to arrange a police escort of Stapleton's daughter to Scotland; and third, sending a quick text to his mother to expect one more child sent their way. The first was met with irate texts and questions. Lestrade said he was on his way (good man). The third was a threat that the next one better be a grandchild. No point in responding to that one.

It was already dark by the time he reached Baker Street, the street lamps offering a small amount of light in the otherwise darkened street. A few people wandered by and Lestrade was waiting for him on the pavement in front of 221, peering curiously at the wooden boards that had been nailed over the windows of Speedy's.

"Didn't realize they'd closed up shop," he said, pointing towards the boards.

"Last week," Sherlock told him. "It's a good thing Mrs. Hudson isn't here, she'd consider it a personal insult."

Lestrade nodded, stepping towards him as Sherlock fished the keys out of his pocket.

"So what's this about a police escort?" the DI asked.

"Twelve-year-old girl, she needs transport from Holloway to Scotla – fucking hell –!" Sherlock roared, lunging forward as he felt two hands grip his hair and shoulder from behind.

He twisted in the grasp of a wild-looking man as Lestrade pulled out his gun. His heart thundered in his chest, his fingers curled in the shirt of his attacker to keep him at arm's length as the man snarled and struggled to get to him, teeth practically gnashing. Sherlock fought to keep his footing as he was pushed backwards down the pavement.

"Shoot him!" he yelled at Lestrade, absolutely horrified by the yellowed eyes and pallor of the man's skin.

"Bloody hold still then!" Lestrade shouted back.

"I hold still, he eats me!"

"To the ground on the count of three! One, two – "

Sherlock barely waited for the last number to step sideways, hauling his attacker by his shirt and flinging him to the ground, using his own momentum to aid in the hurling. His attacker screamed angrily and flailed for a moment before a shot rang out from Lestrade's gun, causing the man to spasm violently as the bullet lodged in his neck. Sherlock gulped in a breath and backed up as Lestrade pulled what looked to be a small baton from his belt, his thumb hitting a switch that released a long blade. In one swift movement, Lestrade had relieved the infected man of his head, effectively ending his miserable state.

The DI hardly missed a beat, pulling his mobile from his pocket and dialing in the incident.

"We have a breach at Baker Street," he said, trying not to sound out of breath. "One for sure. We need immediate response. We need the Marylebone district cordoned off, no one in or out until we find out where this came from. And put out a mobile alert ASAP; I'll remain on-site till backup arrives."

"Inside," Sherlock said as soon as Lestrade had hung up, leading him into 221.

They were met in the foyer by John and Mary rushing down the stairs. "We heard a gunshot," John said worriedly. Taking in Sherlock's rumpled appearance he added, "What happened?"

"Infected case, on the pavement," Sherlock explained, brushing past the Watsons on the stairs and leading the group to his flat. "Gary's called it in, don't worry, no one was bitten."

"Christ," John swore, pivoting and following, the others right behind him.

"And it's Greg, you tit," Lestrade muttered under his breath. "Jesus, even in the middle of a fucking crisis…"

"How on earth did that happen? This is one of the most secure streets in London," Mary said, cutting into the DI's grumbling – and comfortingly familiar – monologue.

"No idea," Lestrade told her. "But it's been a bloody weird evening. Between this and the blackouts and the Metro line breakdown and incident – "

Sherlock turned on the spot and locked eyes with Lestrade. "What incident with the Metro line?" he demanded, an odd feeling creeping into his chest.

"A train lost power during a short blackout between tube stations," Mary explained, pulling her phone out and activating it, handing him the device. The screen had updated notifications on all incidents occurring in London at any given time. "It happened about half an hour ago. They're still working on getting everyone out."

"They're saying someone was sick in one of the cars," John added.

Sherlock felt his stomach drop. "Infected?" he asked, cursing his stupid narrow-minded fixation on Stapleton for the entirety of the day. Why couldn't he have spared one minute, just one, to look into what else was happening in his city?

"No one knows yet," Lestrade said with a shake of his head.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock tried very hard not to let his panic come through in his next words. "The Metro is Molly's line between here and Barts," he explained slowly.

"We know," Mary said quietly, the worry evident in her voice.

"Has anyone heard from her?"

The three of them looked at one another, faces drawn in concern. It was the only answer he needed.

"Mary, call Stamford, see if she's left yet," he ordered, pulling out his mobile and holding it to his ear. "If she hasn't, have him tell her to stay put until I get there...damn!" He pulled the phone away and glared at it as he headed for the door. "Goes right to voicemail." Instead of dropping the mobile in his pocket, he ran his thumb over the screen, clearly redialing. "Who's on the scene?" he demanded before holding the phone back to his ear.

"Donovan and Anderson," Lestrade replied. "I'll tell them to expect you and let you through the cordon, but I have to stay here until the area's been cleared."

"Understood," Sherlock said with a sharp nod. "John'll come with me. Mary, stay here with Lestrade in case Molly shows up. Text John if she does, or if you hear anything from Mike."

"Of course. Be safe," she counseled.

John gave his wife a brief kiss and a hug, murmuring "Love you" and not letting go till she'd repeated the words back to him. It had become a habit, a sort of good-luck charm as Mary put it, and Sherlock still couldn't decide if he found it irritating or comforting. It had taken the two of them a long time to find their way back to one another, in no small part due to his own efforts, and he absolutely believed in their love for one another. However, he just as firmly believed that too much reliance on sentiment during a crisis like the one they currently faced could put them in danger.

Just because his theory had yet to be proven didn't mean it wasn't valid. Or so he kept telling himself.

And just because he felt a twinge of – surely it wasn't jealousy? – something at the love his friends shared, didn't mean he was wrong to put his budding relationship with Molly on hold.

Naturally she was in his thoughts at the moment; she was possibly in danger, and if the other theory he'd been formulating was correct, it was neither an accident nor a coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy, his mind-Mycroft offered up.

"Come on, John," Sherlock barked as he clattered down the stairs. "Molly's life might depend on us."


	9. Battle Girl

Molly's favorite parts of the day had become traveling to and from work on the Tube. That was the only time she wasn't a complete ball of either stress or frustration, when she could just sit back with one earbud on (always keeping an ear free for any important announcements from the intercom) and just...relax and not think. Not think about the Zombie Plague. Not think about London being under martial law.

Not think about Sherlock and the way he'd acted after they had sex.

It was sort of ludicrous, if she did allow herself to think about it, practically a cliche: boy and girl finally have sex and he's a complete and utter dick to her afterwards. If it was a movie she'd realize he wasn't actually the man for her, and the nice, unassuming platonic male friend would turn out to be her One True Love. Of course, right now the unassuming platonic male friend role would have to be either John (happily married) or Greg (sleeping with Sally Donovan and vainly hoping no one knew since under the current military rule it was fraternizing and therefore strictly forbidden).

Ah well. If she was being entirely honest with herself, Sherlock had a point (a very small point) about timing. But he certainly could have worded things a little better! Then again, this was Sherlock she was talking about, who wasn't exactly famous for either his diplomatic or interpersonal skills. Nor was she, come to think of it, remembering more than one awkward conversation from her past. I've seen worse, but then, I do post-mortems.

She banished the memory of that horrible Christmas as best she could, focusing instead on the music playing on her mobile and the paperback she'd brought along to pass the time. The car was crowded tonight, the other passengers wearing expressions ranging from blank to fearful. She missed the days when people were just focused on getting home or to the shops or to work, instead of being terrified of being infected by mutant rabies virus.

There was a slight whir and the train slowed, the lights shutting off before the emergency back-ups came on. The commuting crowd groaned, and she joined them. She also missed the days when the journey to and from work was not continuously interrupted by power failures.

A sudden commotion at the other end of the car caught her attention; she looked up, craning her neck a bit to see past her immediate seat-mate, but there were too many other bodies blocking her view. The sound of some sort of altercation broke out; a woman screamed and the next thing she knew the entire car was a mass of roiling chaos as people scrambled towards her end of the car.

Molly pulled her bag to her chest and tried to keep calm as the other passengers began to press against her, desperately trying to get away from whatever was going on. She strained to see what was causing the rush, using every bit of her five-foot-three strength to keep from getting crushed. When the crowd finally cleared a bit, she could see a body on the floor at the other end of the car and two courageous men trying to hold back a raving man.

Oh God, why did work have to follow her home?

Molly reached into her bag, quickly locating the decently sized knife she had taken to carrying with her at all times.

"Excuse – excuse me," she said loudly, pushing her way past the masses vying for escape to the next car. "Hold him down!"

The two men – thank goodness they were strong and willing – saw her coming and managed to wrestle the infected man to the ground, knees on the back of his shoulders to prevent him from moving and his arms pinned flat to the floor. Molly rushed bravely towards them and practically straddled the body, her adrenaline pumping as the man thrashed beneath her. Not giving herself a chance to become nervous and slip up, she reached out and grabbed the man's hair, holding his head relatively still as she drew the blade across the back of his neck, severing his spinal cord. The movement stopped almost instantly and she and her two helpers let out relieved breaths, sagging away from the body as blood began to seep from the wound.

"Don't touch that," she informed them, to which they immediately jumped up and away. Molly was slower in standing up, wiping the blade on the dead man's clothes to clean it. She glanced down at her jumper, making a face as she realized some of the spatter now stained the cheerful blue-green-red stripes. Damn, it was one of her favorites, too.

She gave a cursory glance to the poor woman lying on the floor a few feet away – the one who had screamed, no doubt. A large wound to her neck was still letting out blood. There was no fear of her suffering through the virus at this point.

It took nearly two hours before they had the train completely evacuated. She was the last one out, of course, as well as her two heroic companions. The authorities held them for questioning as they cleaned up the scene. There was, naturally, a team of medics waiting to inspect everyone as they were escorted from the tube's emergency exit. Every single person catalogued, mouths swabbed, and blood samples taken. They had a good system in place for instant testing, but it was far from perfect. And there would be surveillance. Tracking. The only reason she wasn't worried was that the powers that be knew her by name by that point and trusted her handling of infected.

Molly got through inspection easily enough, her jacket draped over her bag as she held two fingers to the cotton swab taped to the inside of her elbow. She kept her arm bent as she left the tent, thinking she would simply walk home.

That was until she heard the shouting voice of a baritone that was all too familiar.

"Molly! Over here!" She sighed and turned reluctantly to face Sherlock, who was rushing up to her, John right on his heels as they pushed through the crowds of exiting commuters. "Are you injured? John, look her over," Sherlock said with barely a breath between question and command.

"I'm fine, this is just from the blood test," Molly replied with a smile for John as she half-raised her arm to indicate the site of the blood draw.

"Your jumper is missing." Sherlock's sharp gaze was taking in every detail, traveling up and down her form while she shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Yeah, they, um, made me take it off for decontamination," she admitted, wishing they weren't having this conversation here. Or anywhere, for that matter. All she wanted to do was get home, take a hot shower and forget today had ever happened.

"For decontamination? Why? Oh!" Sherlock's eyes widened in understanding, then narrowed as he took a step closer to her. "You got blood on it, how did you get blood on it? You were close to the infected...no, not just close, you're the one who took him out!"

John stared at her in admiration. "Did you? Take him out, I mean?"

"Yes," Molly admitted. "I keep a knife in my handbag now." She told them the whole story, as succinctly as possible, while Sherlock glowered at her, his lips thinning and brow lowering as she reached the point where she severed the infected man's spinal cord.

When she finished, he snapped his head toward John. "That does it. We're definitely being targeted. And you!" His attention was back on Molly, who took a step away from him as he crowded into her personal space, grabbing her by the arms. Molly's eyes went wide, wondering what judgement could possibly be coming her way. "A folding knife? That sad excuse for a self-defense weapon that's been sitting on your mantle every night? Is that what you used? No protective gear, no gloves, just a poly-cotton blend jumper! For God's sake, Molly, how are you not carrying gloves?"

"This wasn't exactly a normal event," she snapped back, extracting herself from his hands. "I wasn't expecting to need full path gear on my evening commute."

"Seriously, Sherlock," John said, coming to her defense. "She did an excellent job given the circumstances."

"Shut up, John," Sherlock ordered.

"Everything all right over here?" Sally Donovan's voice cut through the rising tension like a whip as she darted a disapproving look at Sherlock. The two of them had come to a sort of détente since his return from the dead, but would likely never completely warm up to one another.

"We were just leaving, Sergeant," Sherlock said with the fakest smile he'd ever offered anyone. "Wouldn't want to keep you away from your latest married lover."

"The divorce went through before the shit hit the fan, but thanks for your concern," Sally called after him, her voice dripping with sweetness. It was what passed for courteous conversation between them these days, and Molly and John just exchanged long-suffering glances at the exchange. When Sherlock made as if to hail a passing cab (how did he always manage to do that?), Sally piped up. "Oi! What do you think you're doing? Baker Street's cordoned off, genius!"

Sherlock looked chagrined for about a nano-second before annoyance settled in again. "Well we can hardly walk there, Sergeant; Molly's been involved in an incident and needs transportation home. Which squad car can you spare?"

It was a genius move, John had to admit, in spite of Sherlock's arrogant assumptions: reminding Sally of Molly's involvement in the 'incident' earned them a ride home rather than a two-fingered salute from the peeved Sergeant. John made sure to give her his sincere thanks, which she distractedly acknowledged before one of her officers called her over for something or other.

Three minutes later he and Sherlock were ensconced in the back of a police car while Molly rode shotgun next to the admiring (and rather good-looking) young officer who'd been ordered to return them to Baker Street. He complimented Molly on her handling of the infected passenger, while Sherlock scowled and looked pointedly out the window - but John could see how tightly his fists were clenched. Ho-ho, he thought with a mental grin. Someone's jealous!

During the short drive back John filled her in on the attack outside Baker Street, since Sherlock continued to sulk even after Molly had turned her attention away from their driver. She was full of questions John couldn't answer, but the implications weren't lost on her. She could dismiss the incident on the Tube as just another random outbreak, if it weren't for the attack on Sherlock and Lestrade. Baker Street and its environs were tightly controlled, no doubt due to Mycroft's efforts, and there hadn't been an infected caught within its streets since the early days.

Greg met them outside the door to 221B as they exited the police car. He spoke briefly to the officer, thanking him and sending him on his way as the others examined the scene of the attack. The body and blood of the poor infected bastard had already been cleaned up by the decontamination and removals crew, but the district was still under curfew while the dead man's identity and origins were being investigated. Judging by the look on the DI's face, it wasn't good news. "He wasn't a local," he announced without preamble as the cab drove off. "Had no business or family here, no friends in the area, lived halfway across London and worked for Parliament in the mail room. There was no reason for him to be here, and no way he could have just stumbled into us in his state."

"It'll be the same for the man on the train," Sherlock said. "I think you'll find he wasn't a regular commuter on that line. No, someone deliberately set them on us. I'll know more once I see the bodies. When will they be brought to us at St. Barts?"

Molly bristled a bit at the way he said 'us', but kept quiet and waited for Greg's affirmative answer before speaking up. "The usual procedure will be followed, Sherlock, you know that. Stop telling Greg how to do his job." And everyone else, her tone implied.

Both John and Greg looked a bit surprised by her outburst, but she'd had just about enough of this day. "I'm going inside," she announced, brushing past the three men. "I need a glass of wine and a shower, in that order."

She opened the front door. Much as she longed to slam it loudly shut behind her, she left it partially open since John and Sherlock would eventually be coming inside. If it had been just Sherlock she'd have been tempted to not only slam it but to throw the deadbolt as well. Still fuming a bit, she unlocked and opened the door to 221C, kicking it shut behind her once fully inside.

Or rather, trying to. Something stopped it, that something being Sherlock's foot as he stormed in after her. His kick was more successful; the door slammed shut leaving the two of them alone together. Which hadn't turned out so well last time, and this time didn't look to be shaping up any better, if the thunderous expression on his face was anything to go by.

Sod him, Molly thought rebelliously, knowing her own expression wasn't any more pleasant. "Sherlock, get out of my flat," she said through gritted teeth. "You have no right…"

"Technically it's Mrs. Hudson's flat, and since I'm acting on her behalf in absentia, even more technically it's my flat," he said, his voice an angry rumble. "You're not even paying rent."

"Only because you insisted I move in here," she shot back. "After we'd had sex and you made it clear you thought it was a mistake."

"I never said it was a mistake," he snapped. "I thought you of all people would understand the need for us to focus on the crisis at hand, to not be distracted by one another…"

"Jesus, Sherlock," she cut in, uncaring if he was finished speaking or not. "Why keep me so close if you find me so distracting? Or is it for, how did you put it – oh yes, professional reasons?" When he made no response, she gave a bitter laugh. "Right, we're not supposed to talk about it. Fine." She turned away from him. "I promise the next time one of the walking dead goes on a rampage on the Tube, I'll be properly geared up. I'll start carrying a bone saw with me everywhere I go, and safety goggles and gloves. But right now, I really need that glass of wine."

She made it about two and a half steps before he grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. "Don't make jokes, Molly. Not about this. We're being targeted, and you know what that means."

Her shoulders sagged as the conclusion she'd been avoiding stared her in the face. "It's Jim, isn't it. Moriarty has something to do with this after all. Or he's taking advantage of it to go after you again."

"Me and everyone I care about," Sherlock agreed roughly. Only then did Molly realize he was holding her tightly by the upper arms, that his face was so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath with every word. "Which, despite my better judgement, includes you."

The kiss wasn't exactly unexpected, considering how high their emotions had been running. What was unexpected was the way Sherlock pulled her back when she tried to end it, hauling her against his lean form, holding her securely to him and deepening the kiss with a ferociousness bordering on desperation.

One day, Molly resolved distractedly, she would find out what it was like to kiss Sherlock when a crisis wasn't looming over them. Or when they weren't fighting. For now, she would take what she could get, consequences be damned.

Just as she was reaching to undo the buttons to Sherlock's charcoal-grey dress shirt, there came the distinctive sound of a throat being cleared from the vicinity of her flat's door. She and Sherlock both pivoted their heads to glare at whoever was interrupting them.

"Now I see why you were so insistent on bringing Miss Hooper to Baker Street," Mycroft drawled, looking mildly perturbed by what he had almost witnessed.

Molly stepped away from Sherlock, her hand going to her throat as she attempted to not look embarrassed. Sherlock was masterfully appearing unbothered by his brother's sudden presence in the flat.

"A word, Sherlock? In the hall?" Mycroft said, gesturing towards the door.

Sherlock glanced at her with a very small but mischievous smirk and followed his brother outside, pulling the door shut behind them.

Molly raked her hands through her hair, wondering what that could be about. Certainly it wasn't any brotherly advice as to relationships and safe sex. Mycroft barely acknowledged her existence most of the time; she doubted the fact that she'd slept with Sherlock was going to change his interest in her. She fussed around for a few minutes as she tried to discern what was being said in low tones on the other side of her door. Teapot on the range. Two cups out (just in case).

The lights went dark.

Oh bloody great. She reached for the torch she kept in the kitchen utility drawer and searched for the matches.

 **oOo**

"Do you think this is a game, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked condescendingly. "Another one of your cases that you get to play with until you have it solved?"

"What's got your brolly up your - "

"You can't blackmail a key witness to this pandemic and allow her to trot off home without alerting the proper authorities."

"You mean you? I did alert you. Told you exactly what needed to happen."

"You shouldn't have handled it alone," Mycroft lectured, attempting to keep his voice down. "She knows far more than you managed to pull out of her."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, feeling his skin crawl. "You've already interrogated her, haven't you?"

Mycroft had the good sense to look slightly guilty for how quickly his team had acted on the poor woman. Fortunately, he let the mask of neutrality fall back into place almost instantly. "Couldn't let a moment go to waste."

"And?" Sherlock pressed, his nerves on edge thinking that they had a name, a location, something to prove that he was correct in thinking they were being targeted.

"How's your Cantonese?"


	10. The Burning Dead

Molly was just having some luck getting the kindling to catch in the hearth when the door to her flat opened again. She glanced up, noticing a very changed Sherlock walking through the door. His previous anger had disappeared, replaced by laser focus and something she couldn't quite place as he looked at her.

"Is he gone?" she asked.

He nodded. "The blackouts have been hitting a large portion of the city. He was called away to handle it."

As he spoke, he removed his Belstaff and draped it over the back of her sofa. Molly stood up as he walked closer, concern starting to creep in.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

His eyes raked over her and in the next instant he took another step forward, his arms encircling her as he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was something different than it had been minutes ago, something softer and more needful. She had to fight not to be completely swept off of her feet by the feeling of it.

"Sherlock," she said firmly, pulling away just enough and sliding her hands up to cradle his face. "Please, talk to me."

"We have a lead," he told her, his eyes heavy with a fascinating combination of desire and the thrill of the case. They kept finding their way back to her mouth as he spoke. "A lab in China. It's practically a certainty. We could find out what - and who - started all of this."

Molly frowned a little and let her body sink closer to his. "When do you leave?"

"As soon as it can be arranged," he answered after a pause.

"Mm. Right then," she said, pulling his face down to kiss him deeply. There was absolutely no way she was letting him run off to China for however long without sharing one last night together. Especially since he seemed more than willing to redact his idiotic stance on 'distractions'.

She would save the long heart-to-heart they needed to share for when he returned.

 **oOo**

It wasn't a mistake, he knew that now. No, it wasn't and never could be a mistake; it was a necessity, making love to Molly before leaving for China. A way to clear his mind, to sharpen his focus and remind him of all that he had to lose if this mission wasn't successful. John had been right - not that he would ever tell him so - when he'd reminded Sherlock that women like Molly were never a mistake. The only mistake he'd made had been when he'd pushed her away.

A mistake he intended to rectify, right here, right now. Kissing and being kissed by her was a good start, but there was also the matter of removing her clothing, because cupping her breasts through her blouse and bra was entirely too unsatisfactory; he needed to feel her bare flesh against his, the tactile sensation of her nipples rubbing against the palms of his hands, his mouth buried in her hot sex.

Molly, it would appear, was just as impatient as he; her fingers were nimbly undoing the buttons to his shirt as he continued to kiss her whilst simultaneously shrugging out of his suit jacket. He allowed it to drop to the floor, kicking off his shoes and socks and tugging up the hem of her blouse from where it was tucked into her khakis. He unbuttoned and removed the brightly patterned top as she undid the fastenings to his slacks, the work made slightly more challenging by the fact that neither one wanted to stop kissing the other. At the sound of her gasp he grinned against her throat; she'd discovered he wasn't wearing pants, splendid.

Then it was his turn to gasp as Molly, with a positively wicked grin, slid to her knees in front of him. He started to step out of his discarded trousers, but her hands on his thighs stilled his movements. He laced his fingers through her hair, reveling in the silky sensation. His eyes snapped shut as soon as her mouth landed on his prick, and he let out a groan of satisfaction as he felt her tongue gliding along the turgid length.

He made sure to exert no pressure on her head, simply enjoying the bobbing movement against his hands, although not nearly as much as he was enjoying the wicked way she was using her mouth. After a minute or so, however, he gently tugged on her hair to get her attention. He opened his eyes and looked down at her. "Bedroom?" he suggested hoarsely, jerking his head toward the room in question as he cleared his throat and tried not to look as undone as he felt.

She pulled her mouth away from his prick - unfortunate but expected - and glanced over at the fireplace, the message clear even in the semi-darkness of the room. He pulled her to her feet, stepping out of his trousers and swiftly divesting her of her remaining clothing. At last he could feel her naked body against his with nothing between them. He dove down for another kiss, and another, at the same time adroitly maneuvering her back toward the fireplace. As they passed the sofa he reached out and snagged the afghan hung neatly over the back, flinging it haphazardly to the floor.

He settled Molly onto its folds much more gently; she giggled and squirmed a bit as she attempted to straighten it out, and he smiled at the sight. Dropping to all fours, he leaned over her, their faces close enough to share breaths. Her giggles stopped, her eyes widening as he held her gaze. "Molly, I'm not good at these sorts of things…"

She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, running her thumbs over his zygomatic arches. "Sherlock, I hate to contradict you, but I happen to think you're very, very good at these sorts of things."

"Not sex," he huffed, but with a hint of a smile at her cheeky interruption. "This. Us. Relationships. Apologies." The last word was muttered under his breath, but of course she heard it.

"Apologies?" Instead of being happy or relieved, he was alarmed to feel a sudden tension in her face and body that hadn't been there two seconds prior. What the hell had he done this time? "Is that what this is, Sherlock? An apology? Because if that's the case, you can take your 'apology sex' and shove it up your…"

"No! No," he half-shouted, rearing up on his heels and running agitated hands through his hair. "That's not what I meant at all! I just meant...I was wrong. I shouldn't have tried to...compartmentalize...this. Us. I mean yes, the timing was crap, but that's my fault. I should have let you know what I felt a lot sooner. Long before all this began."

The tension eased as he spoke, but wasn't entirely banished. "And what do you feel?" she asked quietly.

He shifted a bit, wishing suddenly for John to whisper the right answer into his ear. But even his mind-John was silent, as was his mind-Mycroft. The only one who had any sort of advice to offer was his mind-Irene Adler, and what she was suggesting was surely too simplistic to encompass the full breadth of what he felt for Molly Hooper.

In the end, however, there was only one truthful answer he could give. "Everything," he said, lowering his body to rest over hers.

He knew it was the right answer when she pulled him closer and kissed him deeply, her tongue meeting his in an urgent duet. The heat from the fireplace was nothing compared to the growing heat between them; he nudged her legs apart with one knee and settled over her as if nothing could ever part them again. She turned her head after the kiss ended, panting a bit, only to latch onto his throat, sucking hard while her fingers dug into the tender flesh of his scalp. The sensation was incredible, sending a thrill to every part of his body but seeming to center on his prick. He pressed that part of his anatomy more firmly against her core, feeling a fierce sense of satisfaction at the moan that escaped her lips when he did so.

He licked his way down her body, pausing only to cover her breasts with sucking kisses and soft nips. Just long enough to wring some gasps and groans of pleasure from her lips before moving on. "Fucking tease," he heard her grouse and smiled against the soft flesh of her belly. He pressed a gentle kiss there, then eased his mouth a few inches downward.

There were no more complaints as he slipped his tongue between her folds, gliding it over her clit, already rigid with desire and slippery beneath his questing tongue. Molly's moans became guttural, primal, her fingers groping for his head as she bent her knees and planted her feet more firmly on the floor, wordlessly encouraging him to go deeper. He happily obliged, gripping her thighs and burying his tongue inside her, fucking her with it the way he so very desperately wanted to fuck her for real, but determined to bring her off before seeking his own satisfaction.

That goal, once set, was one he pursued with the tenacity and dedication usually reserved for hunting down clues, and proved just as satisfying. Especially once her body began tensing, her fingers tugging frantically at his hair, sharp mewls pouring from her lips and ending with a worshipful cry of his name paired with that of a deity he'd never believed in.

He was more than happy to worship at the altar of her body, to find his faith in her steadfastness, to believe in her as fervently as she believed in him, however little he deserved it. And, of course, to taste the sweet muskiness of her pussy as she twitched and moaned through the finale of her orgasm.

He moved back up her body, curling around her and holding her closely as he waited for her breathing and heart to slow back to normal. Molly wasn't having any of it; she turned in his embrace, kissing him fiercely and wrapping her legs around his thighs. "Don't wanna wait," she said breathlessly. "Want you now, Sherlock." She gave him another sloppy, urgent kiss, pulling him down on top of her. "Please."

He was all too happy to comply, her hand on his prick the only guide he needed to sink deep, deep inside her. She slid her hands up his chest, clutching onto his shoulders as he nipped and sucked at her throat, a sudden urge to mark her as she had him outweighing the part of his mind that disdained such primitive instincts. She would have to wear a high collar tomorrow when she went to work, but the two of them would know what it hid and the idea of them sharing such a tawdry secret sent a thrill up his spine.

The slap of her hand on his ass cheek brought him back out of his own head; he reared back, giving her a look of mock outrage. "Really, Molly? You want to bring S&M into our relationship this soon?"

She blushed, as he'd known she would, but he began moving his body against hers as she returned the offending hand to his shoulder. Leaning down, he breathed into her ear, "Let's save it for when I can get my hands on a new riding crop, shall we?"

Her physical response was quite clear; a shudder ran over her body and she turned her head and practically shoved her tongue down his throat, her fingernails digging into the sweat-slickened flesh of his shoulders as he rutted into her. Her verbal response after the kiss was mostly incomprehensible, but sounded suspiciously like 'there go my fucking ovaries'. He chose to take that as a compliment and increased his pace, reaching down to grasp her hip and deepen the angle of penetration, thrusting hard and fast. She moaned and met him thrust for thrust, clawing at his shoulders and thrashing her head back and forth as he brought her to her second orgasm. It was unlikely they'd repeat their first-time record of four in one night, but he was more than happy to try.

Then she wrapped her legs around his waist and clenched her interior muscles around him and he felt the tightening in his bollocks and the base of his spine that meant he was close, so very close.

He came only a few minutes later, Molly still wrapped warmly around him with arms and legs, her lips pressing soft kisses to his chin, the side of his neck, his lips when he turned his head to fully face her.

Eventually they untangled themselves and made their way to her bedroom, detouring only for a quick wash up and a bite to eat in the flat's small kitchen. Molly, Sherlock decided as he watched her licking marmite from her fingers, looked absolutely ravishing wearing only his coat draped across her shoulders. He told her so, using his smokiest voice, and they barely made it to her bed before falling upon one another again.

As expected, no records were broken this go-round, but the second time Sherlock made sure to take things slowly, a tender love-making rather than the furious fucking in front of the fireplace. Molly's long day seemed to catch up with her after that, and she fell asleep in his arms. He eased her onto her side when the power abruptly came back on sometime after midnight, padding naked into the sitting room to flick off the various lights that had been left on and check that the fire was properly banked. After a quick glass of milk (it was nice how Molly always seemed to have milk, he never could manage to keep any in his flat for some reason) he crawled back into bed, curling himself around her and immediately falling back to sleep.

 **oOo**

The memory of that night with Molly followed Sherlock as he and John flew by helicopter to China. For the first time in his life, he took heed to the words, "Be careful." He suddenly wanted to look out for his own safety, to make sure that his choices didn't result in hurt for those he left behind. He'd done enough of that already.

With a look at John, who had an undeniable spark in his eyes as they cruised through the air with an armored guard, Sherlock regretted that he hadn't learned his lesson sooner. Being willing to sacrifice his life just to prove that he was right with no regard to what his death would do to the people in his life...very not good. John had suffered through a great deal and had seen more than most ever would in their pointless lives, even with the viral plague that was currently haunting the world. He didn't deserve what Sherlock had done to exacerbate his suffering. When they made it through this nightmare, he would make a better effort to be a kinder friend. He would still drag him on absurd cases and there would be a good chance they would skirt the edges of the law a few times a month, but he would do it all with an intent to make John happy. That would make Mary happy, which always improved his life.

And Molly… he would do everything in his power to always make her happy.

As the helicopter began its descent towards Foshan, those thoughts of the future began to slip away. He and John looked outside onto the wasteland of Guangdong Province. The buildings, where they still stood, were mostly abandoned and crumbling. Not a soul was in sight. Cars and buses sat empty in the middle of the streets. From their vantage point, they could see what was left of bodies littering the ground.

"If they're saying this is where it all started, I believe it," John muttered, looking tense as the helicopter touched down on the flat rooftop. It was the building that Stapleton promised held the lab and, ideally, everything they were looking for.

With two soldiers armed to the teeth ahead of them and three behind, Sherlock and John entered the building through the rooftop access door, making their way carefully down the stairs. Stapleton had instructed them to focus on the third floor as it had been under restricted access during her time there. The hall to the access door was windowless and dark. Their escort lit their way with torches, rifles at the ready as they broke through the main door. Sherlock looked around, taking in the octagonal room with a large, circular desk in the center. Doors lined the walls around them, each with a small, square window at eye-level.

While the soldiers checked the room for safety, Sherlock and John entered the desk, quickly pulling file drawers open and searching for anything significant. Sherlock could feel his frustration grow as drawer after drawer came up empty, completely cleared of evidence.

"They knew this was coming," he said, yanking another empty file from a drawer and throwing it to the ground. "They had time to destroy or hideeverything. No wonder Mycroft couldn't find any personnel files; they must have deleted that information beforehand."

"Yeah, I got that," John said with a nod. "So we flew all this way for nothing."

"Not nothing, John," Sherlock said as he continued to search, holding out hope that something had been overlooked. "This confirms that this is ground zero, that they were engineering this virus to become what it has."

"Right...how does it confirm that, exactly?" John asked.

"Because if this lab was doing what they advertised - finding a cure for _lyssavirus_ \- don't you think they would be the first ones to offer up their research in light of what happened?" Sherlock told him. "Why else disappear? Why hide all of their research?"

"Mr. Holmes?" one of the soldiers interrupted. Sherlock glanced up, waiting for the man to continue. The soldier gestured towards one of the doors. "You'll want to take a look at this."

A torch was held for them so that they could look inside the room on the other side of the door. It was small, sterile white, with a single hospital bed and a counter along one wall. The cupboards were opened and all the shelves were bare.

That information was simply filler, peripherally filed as he focused on the more staggering aspect of the room - the body tied to the hospital bed. He'd seen a lot in his time, but there were always moments that made him pause.

Male. Thirty to forty. Dead for approximately four weeks, by the look of decomposition. The straps that held him down had been pulled to their limits. If the man had lived another day or so, there was a good chance he could have freed himself.

"Did Stapleton say anything about this?" John asked, his voice thin.

"The details of Mycroft's interrogation indicate lower primate and _Mus musculus_ exclusively. Nothing about human test subjects," Sherlock said darkly.

"Right," John said through gritted teeth. "Then I think we know what we need to do here." He pulled the radio he'd been given from his belt and flipped it on. "We need full medic gear and a body bag and stretcher, right away."

The rest of the lab turned up nothing. The people who had cleaned it out had been very thorough. The only portion of the building that hadn't been touched had been the lab designed for actual vaccination research. According to the files they found, the lab had actually been fairly close to finding a vaccine that could be administered in the late stages of the disease.

Too bad it wouldn't do any of them any good.

It baffled him that so much care had been taken to cleanse the building of its hidden purpose, only to leave one body behind. He pictured the furious last moments of the lab, before it was abandoned, and tried to imagine the workers somehow forgetting to check the room. In no scenario he imagined could he see any of them having the lack of intelligence to fail to do a thorough check of the facility.

As he watched the team load up the body per John's instructions, Sherlock's eyes suddenly focused on the cupboards. Bare shelves, open cupboard doors. The room had been cleared.

"Oh," he breathed out. "Idiot."

"What's that?" John asked, coming out of the room as the soldiers carried the stretcher out.

"They didn't forget about him," Sherlock said simply. "He tied himself down. He was left behind. Infected, and he knew it. He stopped himself from infecting others. If it's possible, I guarantee a positive identification will show he worked here in some capacity. He knew perfectly well what was about to happen to him."

John looked in the direction the soldiers had gone.

"We need that body analyzed," he stated.

"Clearly," Sherlock agreed.

It was on the flight back to England that the mystery deepened for Sherlock. He received an email from Mycroft, informing him that the scientist Stapleton had been working under a Doctor Nicholas Boehm, did not exist. Well, he did exist in that the man Stapleton worked with had been a real person. Rather, Doctor Nicholas Boehm, the name, had only started existing two-and-a-half years before.

Sherlock shut his phone off and pocketed it, leaning back and steepling his fingers under his chin.


	11. The Night Shift

Exactly four days after Sherlock said good-bye to Molly with a kiss that left her toes curling and a murmured promise that he would get back safely, he and John burst into the morgue at Barts, followed by a team of very official-looking soldiers wheeling a body on a stretcher. She didn't know how she felt about the surge of affection that went through her at the sight of Sherlock showing up with a dead body in her morgue, but she could take a closer look at that association later. For the moment, she was just happy to see he and John both alive and apparently quite excited about what they were presenting her.

"Molly, we are going to need a full autopsy on this individual; chances are he is carrying the virus so do take the proper precautions," Sherlock told her, beginning to gather up her needed equipment and handing it to her.

"Wh-when did you two - "

"About thirty minutes ago," Sherlock said, guiding her towards the washing station.

"Have you seen Mary?" Molly asked John, looking over her shoulder.

"No," John replied, exasperated, gesturing to Sherlock.

"She's upstairs," she told him with a smile, watching him quickly leave the room.

"Now," Sherlock said, continuing on. "The important thing to focus on is, obviously, the virus. But any additional information you can tell us, any foreign DNA, identification, true cause of death, would be marvelous."

Before she could protest, he took hold of her arms and bent down, catching her in a long, deep kiss. Her mind went momentarily blank.

"I told you I would make it back safely," he murmured smugly against her mouth, as though he'd just won a bet.

And with that, he was gone. Swept out the doors of the morgue like a superhero. Managing to close her gob, Molly gulped as she looked at the soldiers. She pointed towards the nearest metal table.

"There," she practically squeaked, clearing her throat. "Um, just, put it right there. Thanks."

Several hours later, after running every test she could possibly think of and with the help of Doctor Stapleton, Molly and the rest of the Baker Street crew were standing in the lab, looking at the DNA analysis results on the large computer monitor. Three sets of radiant bands lit up the screen. One was from the deceased man's saliva, another from his brain, and the third was from his spinal cord. The first two showed the results she had come to expect. The third was, frustratingly, blank. As always. Every time. She worried her bottom lip as she frowned at the screen, waiting for the moment when she would get a sudden bolt of lightning while staring at the gel results. Normally, hoping for a moment of inspiration didn't work.

But that day was an exception.

"Oh," Molly exhaled, looking at the radiant bands, her brown eyes lighting up. "Oh! Oh my, what if we've been going about this all wrong?"

"What do you mean?" Mary asked.

Everyone in the room watched the pathologist as she darted back and forth between the gel results and two computers, clicking away furiously. Suddenly, the screen showed the results from the same strand of viral DNA from previously known Lyssavirus, their bands showing incredibly similar results to the new virus.

"Look," Molly told them, pointing to the pictures. "Positive results from the same areas. All of them. So why aren't we getting positive results from the spinal cord with the mutation?"

"Speculation was that it had to do with complete relocation of the virus from the spine to the brain," Stapleton said, her face lighting up as she began to catch on to what Molly was suggesting. "There was no sign of the virus in the spinal column, was there?"

Molly shook her head.

"No. But what if," Molly said excitedly, her ponytail swinging dramatically as she spun to look at the group, her eyes finally settling on Sherlock. "What if we've been focusing on the wrong end of this? We've been trying to develop a vaccine and a cure in the same way they did over a hundred years ago, by pulling the virulent form from deceased victims... from their brain tissue, because that's where we were finding it. That's how it's worked before, so why not? But what if that's not what's infecting the victims?"

The room was silent as every single person took in what she said and stared at the monitor.

"It's changing," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"It's changing," Molly agreed soberly. "One form infects; it travels up the spinal column to the brain stem and mutates within the body drastically enough to be useless as a vaccine once a person has died. It sheds its old coating and develops a brand new one. Once it's reached the brain stem, there's nothing the immune system can do to stop it. Then it invades the brain, shutting down the cortical and cerebral cortex and causing fever and hydrophobia long enough to 'kill' its host before turning them into a walking incubator for replication."

John looked back at the test results and his face became tense. "So what you're saying is that, in order to create a proper vaccine - "

"We have to take viral samples from a live specimen," Molly finished for him, feeling far less enthusiastic about that information than anything else she had said. "Very newly infected. Before it can make its way to the brain stem. Before it can start to mutate. We need to start from scratch."

"It would be imperative if what you've said is correct," Sherlock agreed.

"I'll let the staff know," Stapleton said hurriedly, excusing herself from the group and rushing from the room. Molly was incredibly grateful that she was around. It had be a huge help having another person working on the virus that had a step up on the problems they were facing. Thank God Mycroft had allowed her to join their team rather than imprisoning her for not warning anyone of what was about to come. The fact that no one would have taken her seriously enough to prevent the plague had factored into her reprieve, although her familiarity with the lyssavirus research being performed in China had certainly helped.

"Molly, you are truly a genius," Sherlock praised her, taking two quick steps, enveloping her head with his hands, and kissing her solidly on the lips before turning and sweeping out of the room.

Molly could feel the blush from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. He was really going to have to stop doing that at work.

 **oOo**

If they had known the solution that would present itself only a few days later, the group wouldn't have been as enthusiastic for the next step of trying to find a cure. An issue had gone out to all officials and law enforcement that any new cases were to be reported immediately. There was no mandate (England still had its standards, after all), but volunteers would be accepted. The only person who actually decided to follow through got to them too late - she was already into the later stages of the disease by the time they could gather a sample. Molly pulled the white sheet over her face and fought back tears at the sacrifice.

She was truly beginning to hate her job.

But nothing could have prepared her for the moment when Mike Stamford walked into the lab, holding a rag against his bicep and staring at her and Sherlock with a look of mild shock on his face.

Sherlock must have known immediately, but it took her until Mike finished explaining what had happened before she understood what was about to occur.

"One of the induced coma patients," he said slowly. "Must've had the dosage wrong… he woke up during rounds…"

She didn't trust herself to perform the spinal tap. John and Mary were brought in for that.

"What if it's not enough?" Mike asked when the procedure was over. John frowned at him. "You know what I mean. What if you need… more? This is the only chance, before it's too late…"

John and Mary went quietly home that night. Sherlock sat resolutely at his microscope. Molly shut herself in the locker room and collapsed on the floor and sobbed. It didn't take long before Sherlock came in and found her, sitting down next to her and pulling her into his arms.

"There was nothing else we could have done," he soothed, running his hand over her back.

"I know," she said, hiccuping a little and wiping the wet from her face before burying herself in his shoulder.

"He did an incredibly brave thing. It's going to change the game."

"I know," she repeated. "But it still hurts."

"I know," he murmured, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head.

 **oOo**

The memorial service was held in St. Barts chapel, a simple affair attended by far more people than the small space could accommodate. Mike had been well-liked as well as respected amongst the hospital staff, and even as she mourned his loss Molly was comforted by the sight of so many familiar faces around her. Not that she knew everyone there, but she knew quite a few of them and spoke to most of those when the service ended. The ones who knew about her research asked how it was progressing; she truthfully told them that Mike had made a significant contribution by volunteering himself for study after being bitten, and that because of his brave sacrifice, there was a chance they might someday find a cure.

Mycroft probably wouldn't approve of what he'd no doubt term her 'indiscretion', but Molly didn't care. People needed hope, and Mike's life and death both deserved to be honored.

Sherlock and John had missed the service, too busy following up a new lead at the opposite end of London. A member of Sherlock's Homeless Network had reported some kind of uptick in the number of people slipping in and out of the city, probably smugglers evading the blockades and curfews and travel restrictions, but possibly something more important. Mike, Molly knew, would have understood and approved their reasons for not being there.

God, when would it stop hurting to think about him? She and Sherlock had made furious love the night John had given the older man the fatal overdose of pentobarbital that was standard in such situations these days, locking themselves in his flat to work out their mutual grief and anger at losing such a good friend - which Mike had been, to both of them. To all of them.

The next morning she'd slipped away before Sherlock awoke, taking the Tube to St. Barts and steeling herself for the morning's grim ordeal: Mike's autopsy. After that she'd buried herself in research, she and Jacqui Stapleton and the other members of their small team working in near silence to test the newly acquired (and dearly paid for) data against Molly's theory.

While others headed for the canteen where a moderate spread had been prepared for the mourners, Molly made her excuses and headed for the path lab. They were awaiting results of several tests, and she needed something to distract her before she could return home. Mary nodded when she took her aside, giving her a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and promising to let Sherlock know where she was if he got home before her.

"Doctor Hooper?"

She turned at the sound of an unfamiliar voice calling her name, managing a polite smile when all she wanted to do was tell whoever it was to sod off. It was a fellow doctor, one who'd been at Mike's service but to whom she hadn't spoken or been introduced. "Doctor Hooper, forgive the intrusion. I'm a colleague of Mike's, or rather, I was. It was terrible, what happened to him. A real tragedy."

He was saying all the right things, but somehow Molly didn't think the sorrow in his voice quite reached his eyes. Maybe it was all her years of Sherlock-watching, learning to become an expert at when a very gifted actor was faking it, but something about the man raised the hackles at the back of her neck. She took in the details of his appearance, studying them for some clue to her sudden unease. He was tall, about as tall as Sherlock, with a darker complexion as if he'd been in more tropical climes than England in the recent past. His hair was dark brown and worn just long enough to brush the tops of his ears, and his eyes were almost the same shade, magnified by the thick lenses of the round wire-rimmed spectacles he wore. He had a lean build and a faintly military bearing that reminded her a bit of John. Nothing alarming in and of itself, and yet...

Seemingly oblivious to her sudden tension, he gave her an ingratiating smile. "Mike told me he thought you were close to a breakthrough, that you might possibly have found a cure, is that correct?"

Molly backed up a step as the man stretched out his hand to shake hers. "I'm sorry, what was your name?" She looked for his ID badge, but it was twisted so that all she could see was the back.

"Ah, yes, sorry, how rude of me!" He chuckled, and there was definitely something off now, something that had Molly trying to unobtrusively fumble her mobile from her lab coat pocket. "My name is…"

"Doctor Boehm? Oh my God!"

Both Molly and the stranger turned to face the speaker. Jacqui Stapleton was standing not ten feet away, just lowering the iPad she must have been studying before speaking. Her eyes were wide and very dark in her suddenly pale face. Molly felt her own color fleeing as she blanched at the realization that the man Jacqui had been working for in China was here. The man Sherlock and John had gone looking for.

The man who might very well be responsible for unleashing this mutated form of rabies on the world.

Everything happened so quickly after that that Molly could only remember it in flashes: her grabbing for her mobile and backing away from Boehm, slamming her hip into the door handle; Jacqui crying out and turning to run as Boehm pulled a gun from beneath his lab coat; crying out and trying to grab it from him; Boehm easily fending her off, smashing her hand into the door and causing her to cry out again as her mobile dropped to the floor; the weapon firing; Jacqui collapsing to the floor in an awkward sprawl, a red stain blooming in the middle of her back.

Boehm whirled to face Molly again, a snarl of rage on his face as he pointed the gun at her. "Well, Doctor Hooper, this isn't exactly how I'd planned things, but there's nothing to be done for it now." He wiggled the gun a bit, indicating that she should move away from the door.

She stumbled forward obediently, cradling her injured hand to her chest and trying not to shake. As she did so, Boehm pulled a neatly folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and dropped it on the floor. He moved the gun again and Molly took two more steps forward, shaking with a combination of rage and fear as her heart pounded in her chest.

As soon as her back was to him Boehm grabbed her, hauling her close to his body and trapping both arms to her chest. The press of the still-smoking gun barrel against her temple stopped her struggles to free herself. "Let's go, Doctor Hooper." He forced her along the empty corridor, which only a few short hours earlier had been teeming with staff. Not so now; it was completely deserted, the other researchers still at the memorial service or gone home for the day, overnight maintenance crew not yet on duty.

They left the hospital via the maintenance lift, taking it all the way down to the basement and out to the delivery dock. Two men were waiting with a lorry, both dropping their cigarettes and leaving them to fizzle out on the pavement as Boehm and Molly appeared. They manhandled her into the vehicle, tying her hands behind her back with plastic zip-ties, but not gagging her. As soon as she saw the needle one of them produced, she understood why. She struggled futilely, was quickly injected, and passed into unconsciousness.


End file.
